


A Riddle To Be Solved

by AMidnightDreary



Series: Riddles [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loki (Marvel) Gets a Hug, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Memory Alteration, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMidnightDreary/pseuds/AMidnightDreary
Summary: He calls himself Brandr Himinson, but only because that's the only name his mind provides. He applies for a job at Stark Industries that could be exactly what he needs - an opportunity to leave New York behind, to bury and forget everything that is so persistently tugging at his mind. He ends up as Tony Stark's personal interpreter during a business trip in Sweden.And Bran finds that he is, even though only reluctantly, drawn to the other man - maybe it's the way Stark looks at him. As if he knows something about him that Bran himself doesn't, as if Stark is intrigued by him without end and still doesn't trust him an inch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, folks!  
> Soo, this story was only meant to be a rather small distraction from IW, but somehow it turned out longer than intended. It's a little jump back to 2012, I guess. xD It's set after Avengers, and not really Iron Man 3 or AOU compliant. I suppose the idea is nothing really new, but anyway, I had to get it out of my head.  
> I have a few chapters written in advance, and I'll try to update every monday. Rating and tags might change along the way, so keep an eye on them!  
> Also, English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry in advance for any mistakes.  
> I hope you like it! Please let me know what you think. ^.^

The child was about six or seven years old. A blonde girl, a little chubby, with big dark eyes. Dressed in colorful clothes, a small purple backpack on her knees. She was with a man who was presumably her father, judging by the fond smile on the man's lips whenever he looked at her.

The girl kept staring at him.

Bran tried a smile.

She blinked, but the fear didn't fade from her eyes. If he hadn't known better, if he hadn't been sure that he had never seen this girl in his life, he would have said that the expression in those eyes was, well – _recognition._

And due to that, fear.

It was a little bit unsettling.

The girl tugged at her father's jacket, demanding his attention. When he leaned down to her, she whispered into his ear, and he looked up again instantly.

Their eyes met, and the man frowned. Bran tried to maintain his smile, even if he felt more like scowling, and it seemed to work better with the man than it had with his daughter. The man smiled back apologetically and averted his eyes again, speaking softly to his daughter. Trying to soothe her, without a doubt. It worked almost as well as Bran's smile earlier.

He was relieved when the man and his child left the subway at the next station. He didn't know what he had ever done to them, but children just never seemed to like him. They looked at him too much while adults wouldn't look at him at all. As if they didn't even see him unless something drew their attention to him.

It was weird, but he had stopped thinking about it a long time ago. He had forgotten the little girl five minutes later when he stepped out of the train. Above the ground again, on the street, he needed a few moments to orientate himself. He had never been to this part of New York, but that didn't really make a difference. For him, everything in this city looked the same – stone and metal and glass, and far too many people.

It was exactly what Bran had wanted when he came here a few months ago – _people_. Noise that would pull him out of his own head and call his attention to other things than his miserable state. But now that he had New York around him, bestowing him with as many people and as much noise as he had wished for, it only annoyed him.

It wasn't a long way from the subway station. And, well, the tower wasn't exactly difficult to find. It was ridiculously swanky, and even more so on the inside. Even if he had to admit that he'd probably built himself a tower like this as well if he had the means for it, Bran could barely keep from rolling his eyes when he entered the lobby – why was he here again?

Ah, yes. Money.

The lobby had a touch of an airport. Everybody passed by in a hurry, only stopping at one of the two – no, three, there seemed to be another one behind the reception – coffee shops to get something small for breakfast. The lines were miles long, so _three_ of those shops were probably needed. There were a few other stores as well, books and electronics – only Stark products, of course – and office supplies. Bran took it all in, already bored with what he saw, and made his way to the reception.

The reception clerk was a young woman who didn't notice him until he cleared his throat two times. Only then she looked at him, her eyes wandering over his frame and widening only so much before her lips formed a smile that was a little bit too bright to be merely professional.

“Good morning, sir”, she greeted him friendly, “and welcome to Stark Tower. How can I help you?”

Bran gave her his most charming smile. It was satisfying to see that the girl started fidgeting a little, moving to run her fingers through her hair to make sure every strand was in place but stopping mid movement.

“I have an appointment with Miss Virginia Potts”, he told her. “A job interview. I'm not entirely sure where, though.”

“Ah”, she said, and he could see her swallow. “Your name, sir?”

“Brandr Himinson.”

The woman seemed to stumble over the name, so he spelled it out for her – he was used to that – and then watched as she quickly checked something in her computer.

“You're a little bit early”, she told him after looking up again, her smile even less professional than before.

“Am I?”

She hummed affirmatively. “Yes. You'll need only a few minutes from here to floor 77, our elevators are really fast.”

“I am sure of that. 77, you said?”

“Yes, Miss Potts' office. You can't miss it.”

“Thank you very much”, he said before winking subtly enough to have her wonder if she imagined it. “It was nice to talk to you, Miss...”

He forgot her name as soon as she told him. But it was fun to imagine that she would wait for him to return, would look for him in the mass of people that passed her counter – he _knew_ that she would.

She had been right about the elevators, though. They were fast, and he was on floor 77 within what felt like seconds. It didn't take him long to find Miss Potts' office. A sign next to a see-through door announced her name, and he could look through the glass into a modernly furnished room. A secretary was currently staring at the monitor of the computer in front of her, and not for the first time Bran thought that having such a job must be immensely boring. He didn't let his slight disdain show when he entered the outer office, showing a friendly smile instead.

The secretary, a woman who seemed to be a little older than the girl in the lobby, looked up when she heard the door open and promptly returned his smile. She greeted him politely and nodded knowingly when he introduced himself.

“Ah, the linguist?”, she asked, the interest clear in her eyes.

“Exactly.” Bran let his smile widen into a small grin. “I think I am a little bit early, I hope that's not a problem.”

“Of course not”, she replied instantly. “You're perfectly on time, don't worry. Miss Potts is not here yet, though, but you can wait here until she returns.”

He thanked her and accepted her invitation to sit down on one of the two chairs in the room. He also let her engage him in conversation, even though she was awfully boring. What was it about _everyone_ he met being so incredibly dull? He almost had the feeling that it was even worse here in New York.

The faint _ping_ of the elevator pulled him out of his thoughts and made him turn his head. The secretary didn't seem to have noticed it, chatting on about something uninteresting, but she stopped when a red haired woman came into sight. Her heels clattered on the floor as she entered the room, her gentle smile being in a slight contrast to the resoluteness the rest of her displayed.

“Hello, Ann”, she greeted her secretary while making her way to the door that presumably lead to her office. “JARVIS told me that the interpreter is here, did you send him in already?”

“No, I'm here”, Bran said before “Ann” could respond anything. He stood up to get the woman's attention, and she instantly turned around to him.

“Oh, I'm sorry!”, she said, approaching him and offering her hand to shake. “I didn't even -”

She stopped, suddenly, and the smile fell from her face as soon as she really looked at him. She even drew her hand back as if afraid to burn herself. She just stared at him for a moment, eyes wide with fright and -

_Recognition._

Bran returned her gaze in confusion, quirking his brow. “Are you alright, Miss?”

For a few more seconds, her expression didn't change, but then she blinked slowly and apparently pulled herself together. Her smile returned, only a ghost compared to her earlier one, and the fear didn't leave her eyes.

“I'm sorry”, she said too quickly, “I just realized that I forgot something rather important; I've been – in a haze today. I'm Pepper Potts, it's... nice to meet you.”

She offered her hand again, the movement so clearly reluctant that he felt even more unsettled. He took her hand carefully, wondering what about him had given her such a scare. He smiled at her anyways, a gentle look in his eyes that usually helped to distract people from whatever it was they didn't like about him.

“The pleasure is all mine”, he said. “Brandr Himinson. Thank you for inviting me here.”

“Well, your references were flawless”, Miss Potts said slowly, looking him over so cautiously that he almost had to resist the urge to squirm. “Would you mind waiting another two minutes? I'm so sorry that it has to be now, but there's something I need to take care of.”

“Of course, no problem at all.”

Her smile stayed as tight as it was when she turned to her secretary. “Ann, you can take a break if you want to. Maybe get some breakfast?”

Ann seemed surprised, her eyes flickering over to Bran. “Oh, I'm not really hungry. I could stay here and -”

“I insist”, Miss Potts interrupted her. “You deserve some coffee, I think. You could get me one as well.”

“Okay”, the younger woman said, drawing the word out. “Fine, of course. The usual?”

“Yes, that'd be great.”

Ann smiled brightly at Bran. “Can I bring you something as well?”

“No, thank you.”

She seemed almost disappointed when she left the office, leaving Bran alone with Miss Potts. The CEO of Stark Industries looked at him for a moment, completely tensed up because of something Bran couldn't really put his finger on.

“I'll be back in a moment”, she said in the end.

Her tone was polite, but she didn't even await his nod before she left to room. To his surprise, she didn't turn to her office but headed out to the door that lead to the corridor. He watched as she pulled a phone out of her pocket, her movements hasty as she dialed a number. She spoke into the phone, so quiet and fast that he could only hear whispered words, unable to make out their meaning. She glanced at him, suddenly, and froze when she realized that he looked at him. He was confused enough to not look away, and a second later she took a few hurried steps and disappeared out of his sight.

Bran sighed. This couldn't possibly be a good sign.

He needed to make this work. He needed the money, _and_ he needed to leave New York or he would get insane in the hell this place had turned out to be. But apparently he had already messed this up, even though he had not the slightest idea how.

He tugged at his suit jacket and ran his fingers through his short hair. He had taken particularly great care this morning, wanting to make the best impression possible. And he still felt _wrong_ , as if his skin didn't fit him. One ought to think that he should be used to that by now, given the fact that he didn't remember a time he had been at ease with himself. No, it had always been there, this weird feeling that something had slipped his attention, something horribly important, and that everything about him was somehow... muddled. As if the individual pieces of himself were too sharp and ragged at the edges to ever fit together. And it had gotten even worse since he had arrived in New York.

This city was a mine field of reminders. He just never knew _what_ he was being reminded of – it always escaped his grasp, leaving him dazed and scared, made his heart beat too fast and his breathing so erratic that no air found its way into his lungs.

Situations like this occurred far too often. It was as if everybody just knew that he was _wrong,_ that he didn't belong and that they shouldn't even do so much as look at him. And when they did that anyway, they almost seemed to fear him.

Whenever he thought about that too deeply, he hated it – _himself_ – with every fibre of his being. And even if this wasn't the right time to give in to the urge to try and understand _why_ , he couldn't help it. It was pointless as always, only earning him that by now known feeling of frustration and anger directed at himself.

The intensity of that sentiment almost took him by surprise, like every time it flared up all of a sudden. He knew it would abate again, it always did. But now, his breathing hitched as he closed his eyes for a moment – saw the big dark eyes of the girl in the subway again, filled with fear – and tried to forget it again like he always did.

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't alone anymore.

Inwardly cursing himself and his poor alertness – usually, _nothing_ slipped his attention – he stared at the man standing a few steps away from him. He was watching Bran with a thoughtful wrinkle between his brown eyes, and Bran tried to ignore the twinge of confused panic that flashed through him when he noticed the suspicion that lingered in the man's glare as well. He had done some research, so he knew instantly who it was, and he also knew that he needed the man to forget that he had just seen Bran on the brink of a panic attack. So Bran pulled himself together and stood up, feigning a confident smile.

“Mr Stark, it's a pleasure to meet you”, he said, approaching the smaller man. “I thought Miss Potts would -”

“No”, Anthony Edward Stark interrupted him, voice so sharp that Bran stopped and blinked at him.

Stark apparently noticed his reaction, and Bran could watch as the smaller man put on an expression that was just as feigned as Bran's smile. Some of the tension left Stark's body and his lips formed a smirk Bran had already seen on a few pictures of the man. Before Bran could even start to try to understand what all of this meant, Stark continued speaking, his tone the epitome of nonchalance.

“No, she's needed elsewhere. One's quite busy as the leader of Stark Industries, let me tell you that.”

Bran raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you passed over that position over to her?”

“Ah, someone did a bit of research.”

“Only a little.”

“Well, anyway”, Stark said, his smirk strangely frozen. “You'll have to make do with me. Tony Stark, you know it already. Nice to meet you and stuff.”

Bran didn't hesitate before he took the hand Stark offered, the other man's grip warm and a little bit too tight. He didn't get to introduce himself, though, because Stark already pulled away again and invited him into Miss Potts' office.

Bran didn't miss that he was being looked over on the way to the desk. He kept his expression blank, determined to not let even a hint of his confusion show. He knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't even take a guess at what it was. He hadn't done _anything_ since he stepped into the lobby of this damned tower that could justify the reaction he was getting. Stark looked at him as if he expected Bran to stab him at every passing second. Better not let him know of the small dagger Bran always carried; he wouldn't be able to explain that reasonably.

Subtly, he took the other man in as well while he took the folder with his references out of his briefcase – he hadn't really _looked_ at Stark when the man had suddenly been there. He now realized that the millionaire was indeed rather short; the photos Bran had seen always made him appear taller, somehow. He wore a dark suit that had doubtlessly been tailored for him, and Bran had to admit that he was quite pleasant to look at. Or, he would have been if Bran had the time and the nerves to really appreciate it. Which wasn't the case in the moment because Stark still watched him far too warily for Bran's taste.

“So”, the inventor said cheerfully after a few seconds of strained silence. “What was your name again?”

“Brandr Himinson.”

“That doesn't even sound like a real name”, Stark replied, quirking a brow.

Bran barely kept from rolling his eyes. “Well, it is a rather unusual name in the United States. I assure you, it is real.”

“It doesn't really fit you, I think.”

Bran's first instinct was to snarl something in response, but he managed to keep himself in check. His fingers dug into the fabric of his slacks, something Stark wasn't able to see, as he swallowed his sudden anger about the part of him that simply... _agreed_.

“It's my name”, he said, defiantly holding Stark's gaze.

Stark's smirk almost seemed real now. “Right. Does it mean anything?”

“Is that important?”, Bran countered, unwilling to talk about the name – _his_ name – that felt so wrong every time it was spoken out loud.

“Maybe. I'm interested.”

“I am sure Google could help you satisfy your curiosity.”

It was _nearly_ a hiss, something Bran chided himself for instantly. This wasn't the time for his control to slip, and it was never a good idea to snap at one's boss-to-be. But well, judging by the way Stark looked at him, he wouldn't get the job anyway. The millionaire seemed far too aware of Bran's admittedly agitated state, the brown eyes looking at him knowingly enough to make Bran feel exposed. And there was still a lot of suspicion Stark regarded him with, mingled with the faintest hint of curiosity.

As if Bran was a riddle Stark wanted to solve, all the while expecting it to be a trick question. A trap, but not unsolvable – based on what Bran had read about the man Stark wasn't someone who was too stubborn and arrogant to ever declare anything impossible.

“Where are you from?”, Stark asked after a few seconds had passed in strained silence.

“Norway”, Bran answered, keeping his voice carefully flat.

Stark snorted.. “Really? Norway?”

In fact, Bran wasn't even sure anymore if he wanted this job. Stark had managed to make him _mad_ within ten minutes – being around the man ten hours a day didn't occur to him as a pleasant experience, now that he thought of it.

So, he didn't bother to hold back his snapping. “Is there something funny about that?”

Stark lips curled into a smirk that showed all too clearly that the answer was a yes. “I think _that_ fits you, that's all. Because, you know – Scandinavia.”

Bran didn't like it when people talked to him as if they knew more than him – not that he talked to a lot of people nowadays, but still. He also didn't like it when people didn't make any sense, and Stark had managed to confused him.

Whatever it was that made Stark think that coming from Scandinavia _fit_ him, Bran was sure that he was awfully mistaken. Bran's life there had been almost as bad as in New York, after all.

And that “almost” was the only reason why he wanted to go back.

When Bran didn't answer, only staring at Stark in not so hidden irritation, Stark apparently felt compelled to continue the conversation. His smirk didn't disappear, though, even if his voice had lost its mocking sound when he spoke again.

“I would have taken you for a native speaker, I think”, Stark said conversationally. “A Brit, maybe? You kind of sound like one.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. It's quite impressive, actually.”

“Well, I _am_ the best linguist you could find”, Bran said, the rolling of his eyes audible in his voice. “Which is why I am here.”

“Oh, right”, Stark said, as if he had forgotten the reason why they were talking to each other in the first place. “You applied for that job. I've never really conducted a job interview before.”

“I wouldn't have guessed.”

For a second, Stark looked as if he wanted to give Bran extra points for sarcasm. “I like your sass”, he announced, sounding as if he had just remembered something he had forgotten. “You're hired.”

Bran blinked. “Pardon?”

“You've got the job.”

So. Stark _had_ given him extra points for sarcasm. Bran frowned. “You haven't asked a single question about my -”

“You said you're the best linguist we could find”, Stark interrupted him. “Pepper wouldn't have chosen you out of all the candidates if that wasn't true. And well, is your Swedish as good as your English?”

“It is, but I -”

“Great. So, you're in. Congratulations.”

“I don't think this is-”

“No, no turning back now. We head off to Uppsala in three weeks. Pepper will take care that you get all the info you need. We've got your address and stuff.” With those words, Stark leaned forward and grabbed Bran's folder. “I can keep that, right?”

Bran just watched as Stark riffled through the documents inside the folder, Bran's resume apparently being what piqued Stark's interest the most. His look was concentrated as he scanned the paper, seemingly searching for... _something._ Bran didn't know what he was looking for, and frankly he didn't even care – he had just gotten the job he wanted, the money and the chance he needed to leave New York behind.

And something struck him as royally wrong.

Ten minutes later, Bran was leaving Stark Tower. Ann hadn't been back yet when he had passed her desk in Miss Potts' outer office, which might have occurred to him as strange if he hadn't been so distracted.

During the whole way back to the small apartment he hated, he wondered if it might be a good idea to cancel his employment at Stark Industries before it had even started. Stark had said that Bran would get the contract per mail, so it would be easy to just not sign it and never face Stark again.

He didn't know if he wanted to keep up with that hollow feeling he had since he had seen the only poorly hidden fear in Virginia Potts' eyes. Or with Stark's strange behaviour. He didn't know if he _could_ keep up with that. But he did know that the job would be well paid and that he would leave New York for good in just three weeks. And that what was he wanted, wasn't it?

Yes, he had gotten _exactly_ what he wanted. He would get to be Stark's personal interpreter during the time the millionaire would be in Sweden because of something Bran didn't know yet (probably some secret that had to be kept from the public and would have intrigued him if his mind hadn't been so busy with other things). He would get the money he needed to built himself a new life somewhere far, far away from anything that could be a reminder of whatever it was that was lurking somewhere in the depths of his mind.

But he couldn't stop thinking about Stark's look when he had seen Bran off – that unsettling (and mildly fascinating, if only in hindsight) mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Bran couldn't shake off the feeling that the man knew something Bran didn't. And, well -

He would be _Stark's personal interpreter._ Bran wouldn't leave the inventor's side for the most part of the days. And that meant that he would probably get every chance he needed to find out just _why_ Stark had looked at him like that.

If nothing else, that was a chance he intended to take.

 _Three weeks_ , Bran told himself when he entered his apartment and tossed his keys on the small side table in the corridor.

He could manage that.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He dreamed of falling again.

Of his grand and striking collection of nightmares, this was the one Bran hated the most. It was the one that always left him more cold and shaken and lonely than any of the others. It also happened to be the one he dreamed most often.

Later, he could never say how that dream started. It always just _began_ , and every time he felt as if he had already been falling for eternities. Falling probably wasn't the right word to describe it, but it was the only one he had come up with, so he had chosen it.

But, well, it wasn't like falling. Not at all. There never was a whoosh of air around him or a pressure on his limbs that made them flail around. No hitched breaths, no rushing in his ears. There was just.. nothing. A nothing that was dark and empty, most of the time, but still moving. Changing. Stirred by flashes of light, by silhouettes and colors and swirls of stars that would have been beautiful, maybe, if it hadn't been so terrifying.

He was always unable to close his eyes. He was always unable to breathe, and at the same time unable to _stop breathing_. He tried – Norns, he tried. He wanted it to end. But he always just kept seeing, kept breathing, kept _existing_. And it went on and on and on, and he felt the emptiness crawl under his skin, into his bones. Sickening his mind.

It always followed him into wakefulness.

But this time, it was different. This time, he – he _landed_.

And suddenly, there was the weight of a weapon in his hand. His feet were on solid ground again. He had a task, and he had no choice. He felt insanity nagging and tearing at his mind. The dream ended with a _clink_ , like metal meeting metal, and something like a pulse beneath his fingertips.

Bran awoke with a jolt, shaking and covered in cold sweat. His mind was reeling, stumbling, and he couldn't breathe. It was worse than usual. He couldn't think, let alone move, and so he just stared into the darkness of his bedroom with wide eyes. He tried to suck in air, only ending up with sobs that didn't do more than interrupting his ragged breathing. He couldn't say how much time had passed until he at least partially shook off the feeling the dream had left him with. When he was finally able to think again, his breaths got more regular as well. He pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes, concentrating and counting – _...two, three; three, two, one; one, two..._ – as he breathed in and out in the rhythm of his counting.

And that was all he did until he had calmed down enough for his legs to hold him when he stood up. Bran left the bed, stumbling a little, and blindly rifled through his wardrobe in search of some clothes. When he found pants and a worn out shirt, he pressed them against his chest and scuffled to the bathroom. He was following a simple list that the still rational thinking part of his mind had provided – a shower to get the sweat off and his head clearer. Clothes. A drink to ease the soreness of his throat. And then whatever was on TV at this ungodly hour, and a blanket to warm him up while he dealt with the remnants of his dream.

The shower did him good, even if he was still cold and slightly trembling when he stepped out of it. Like always, he avoided looking into the mirror, knowing it would only show him what a mess he was – his black hair wet and messy and _too short_ , his face pale and his green eyes clouded and red from crying.

He didn't feel as pathetic as usual, though. He realized that when he dragged his feet to his small kitchen, and it helped him calm his thoughts a little. He stood in the middle of the room for a few minutes, dwelling on thoughts while sipping water out of a glass. He still felt somewhat dizzy, so he made tea and scuffled to the sofa.

His eyes fixed absently on the screen of the TV where some probably boring movie was running, Bran found that he indeed didn't feel as agitated as he did usually. Maybe that was normal after such a break down. It was rarely _that_ bad, and now he felt as if he hadn't much power left to be anything else than slightly dazed, and he was more confused than frustrated. And tired, even tough he knew that trying to sleep would be pointless.

He still had that _cling_ in his ears. He had no idea what it was, but somehow it struck him as important. He sipped his tea while he tried to identify that sound, all the while trying to fight the part of his mind that wanted to declare it for a senseless thing his subconscious had come up with. Well, it wouldn't be a new thing, that was certain – his mind bestowed him with the weirdest dreams that couldn't possibly mean anything, so maybe this was just as meaningless as the others. Maybe it was something deeply metaphorical he couldn't grasp the true meaning of, maybe it truly meant _nothing_. He would never know, probably. And most likely it didn't even matter.

The rest of the night passed only slowly, with Bran's head still slightly foggy because of the dream. He dozed a little on the sofa, but in the end he was still confused and weary when he stood up in the morning. He still needed to pack his things, but given how few belongings he had it wouldn't take him much time. When he sat in the kitchen, eating something small for breakfast, he felt a twinge of nervousness coming on again.

The last three weeks had been incredibly boring. He had translated a few texts, which had earned him close to no money at all, and spent the rest of his days writing and reading and struggling to cope. The contract Stark had promised him had been in his mail box only a day after his visit at Stark Tower, and he had it signed and sent back by the next day. He had done so with a hollow feeling in his stomach, unable to forget how odd Stark had behaved. The way Miss Potts had looked at him was also still lingering in his mind. In fact, the last thing he wanted was to face either of them again, but well, there had to be a reason for them to act like they had, and Bran wouldn't figure it out when he stayed hidden in his shabby apartment. So he had accepted the job, and now that he would be picked up by one of Stark's employees in a few hours, the anticipation he felt was not only unpleasant.

By early afternoon he had given away the keys to his now finally former apartment to his now finally former landlord, who seemed to be glad to be rid of him. When Bran left the house he was determined to never enter it again, and as he stood on the sidewalk and waited for his ride he had almost forgotten that he was headed to a job he probably wouldn't enjoy. The only thing he thought about was that he would have left America in only a few hours, and that he was practically already on his way back -

Well. Not _home._ There was no such place he could return to. He supposed his cabin would be empty and waiting for him, but what purpose would it have to go back to from where he had fled? That cabin wouldn't give him anything, even if it was the closest thing to a home he had. He didn't want to live there again, a few miles away from civilization that went beyond farms and herds of sheep. It had been beautiful there, yes, and peaceful, but with nothing but his own thoughts to keep himself busy, he would get even more insane as he already was.

He would probably stay in Scandinavia, though, because all in all he had been more comfortable there than in the United States. Maybe a small town somewhere in Sweden or Norway, with enough people around him to not feel lonely, but not enough to be truly bothered by them. Maybe his neighbors would smile at him, now and then, instead of being completely unaware of his existence.

He shouldn't get his hopes up like that, probably.

It was a limousine that stopped in front of him eventually. Bran could only quirk an eyebrow, neither really surprised nor entirely displeased. A few seconds later, a sturdy man approached him, and once more he was looked over warily, as if the man expected him to throw some kind of tantrum.

Bran put on an aloof smile.

“Hello, sir”, the man greeted him, sounding a little bit reluctant to address him that politely. “Are you Mr. Himmensoon?”

“Himinson”, Bran corrected, suppressing a sigh. “Yes, I am.”

The man introduced himself as “Harold Hogan”, and as he stored Bran's small suitcase away Bran realized that he had seen the man before. On a few pictures he had come across while looking up Anthony Stark, Hogan had been right next to the millionaire. A bodyguard, apparently, which fitted his stature. So either Stark's bodyguard also worked as his chauffeur or Stark had sent someone who he believed to be able to overpower Bran in case – what, in case Bran decided to lash out at somebody?

How endearing.

Hogan didn't talk to Bran on the drive to the airport, and Bran wasn't curious or bored enough to try and start a conversation. He had never been in a limousine before and found himself liking the luxury; maybe that was a perk of working for Tony Stark. If it was, Bran certainly could get used to that, even though it struck him as slightly unlikely that every employee at Stark Industries was treated like that. Inwardly, he began to make a list of all the things that occurred to him as strange, already knowing that it would be a rather long one.

When Hogan didn't just hand him a plane ticket and drop him off at the airport, Bran started to wonder. When Miss Potts' secretary – Ann, he remembered – had called him a few days ago she had only told him that he would be picked up and driven to the airport, and he had thought that he would get a regular ticket for a regular plane and would be picked up again by someone else in Uppsala.

Apparently, that was not the case.

When Bran stepped out of the car, he found himself already standing on the airfield, a rather small plane waiting there for them. It had Stark's name plastered on its side, seemingly one of the millionaire's private jets. Hogan took care of Bran's luggage, motioning for Bran to follow him when he made his way to the jet. They climbed the stairs to the plane's entrance, the door opening for them seemingly on its own account.

“Just, uh, make yourself comfortable, sir”, Hogan said after the door had closed behind them again, his thumb pointing at another door to their right. “The boss should be here soon.”

With that, he disappeared into what had to be the cockpit; at least Bran had caught a glance of what looked like a lot of buttons and screens. Bran stayed standing where he was, frowning. _The boss_. He didn't really like what that implied. After a moment, he turned to the door Hogan had showed him. It opened as soon as he stood in front of it, causing him to raise an eyebrow. Soon he found himself standing in the sitting area of the jet, surrounded by comfortable looking chairs and sofas. It was admittedly nice, and he should probably avoid getting used to this level of luxury. Which didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it while it lasted.

Just like Hogan had suggested, Bran made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. He just sat around for a while, expecting _the boss_ to arrive soon, but when he was still alone after twenty minutes, he decided to busy himself otherwise. He was glad that he had packed a smaller shoulder bag as well, with a book and his laptop to entertain him on the long flight.

He couldn't concentrate on reading, though. He even had trouble sitting still. A part of him wanted to escape this plane, to flee from this whole situation – and from Anthony Stark, perhaps, and the way that man would look at him.

Bran still didn't know what to expect from this job he had accepted. Neither the contract nor Ann had given him any information about what this business trip to Sweden was about or why Stark needed an interpreter. Bran was sure that whoever Stark would meet in Uppsala could speak English, regardless whether they were scientists or business people. And that wasn't the only thing that didn't make sense to Bran – there wasn't any doubt to who _the boss_ was, and Bran didn't know why Stark had chosen for them to fly together, let alone in his private jet-

Maybe Stark simply was a man who rarely made any sense.

A screeching of tires pulled him out of his pondering. Through the window he could see a swanky sports car coming to a halt next to Hogan's limousine, and shortly after that Stark getting out of it. His grin was wide enough for Bran to make it out, even out of distance. Bran sighed, returning his attention to his book and trying to appear at ease.

It didn't take long until he heard the inventor's voice, probably speaking to Hogan, and then the door opened again and the man himself came into sight, his grin getting even wider when he set his eyes on Bran.

“Hey, Skykid”, he greeted him, “you look like you're feeling at home already, great.”

“Well, I had some time to adjust”, Bran replied as he reluctantly closed his book and set it aside, “since I waited for almost an hour.”

“Yeah, punctuality isn't one of my strengths.” Stark took of the sun glasses he was wearing, revealing what Bran had already assumed – Stark's grin didn't reach his eyes. “I have other virtues.”

“Certainly.”

Suddenly, the jet stirred to life, apparently preparing to start. Stark seemed unperturbed by that, making his way to the small bar in one corner of the room.

“Want a drink?”, he asked over his shoulder.

“No, thank you.”

The inventor snickered softly to himself, apparently amused by a joke Bran hadn't caught. “You're not much of a drinker, are you?”

“I like my mind to be free of anything that could tarnish it.”

It was tarnished enough as it was, after all.

“Sounds like you've got your life in control, eh?”

Bran suppressed a snort, watching as Stark poured some liquor in a glass. The American looked worn out, the dark circles beneath his eyes indicating that Bran wasn't the only one who had slept bad the last night.

When the inventor came back over to him, the jet had already increased in tempo, and it was a matter of seconds until they were in air. With a sigh Stark sat down in the armchair across from Bran, looking at him rather pensively as he took a sip out of a glass.

“So”, he said, and that word alone made clear that Bran could look forward to a flight full of unsettling conversation and probably more strange behaviour on Stark's part. “I googled your name.”

“So I figured. I hope you don't plan on sticking to that nickname.”

“Skykid?” Stark chuckled, placing his glass on the table between them. “Why, you don't like it? I think it's great. And that's basically what your name means, right?”

“'Himinn' is Icelandic for heaven, yes”, Bran confirmed reluctantly, looking out of the window.

“So, your father's name is Himin?”

Bran stiffened, feeling a cold knot settling in his chest. He didn't answer, because he had no idea _what_ to answer, and Stark was intelligent enough to not probe into it.

“Okay, if you don't like Skykid, I can think of other things”, he offered instead, sounding cheerful. “I'm an undying fountain of nicknames, really. What about Zuko?”

“Zuko”, Bran repeated, turning to Stark again to look at him skeptically.

“Yeah. You know him? He's a firebender. Would fit to your first name.” Stark raised his brows, grinning again. “I could also come up with a dozen names related to swords and spears, but a few of them aren't very mature.”

“I suppose that will not keep you from using them.”

“You seem to know me very well already.”

Bran just smirked. He hoped that Stark didn't intend to keep talking until they landed in Uppsala, but the millionaire did seem like someone who liked hearing his voice a little bit too much. This flight would probably drag on endlessly.

“What should I call you, then?”, Stark asked after a few seconds of silence. “Any preferences?”

Bran blinked at the other man, swallowing down a feeling of reluctance. “Bran will do”, he said eventually, after telling himself that Stark had to address him with _something_ , even if he himself didn't like hearing his name at all.

“Bran?”, Stark parroted, sounding surprised. “Like that kid in Game of Thrones. Well, at least I can pronounce that without problems. Is that what your friends call you?”

This time, Bran couldn't keep from snorting. “Yes, naturally.”

Stark stayed silent for a moment, his brows slightly raised at the only poorly hidden bitterness in Bran's voice. Bran reproached himself and averted his eyes from Stark, wanting the conversation to be over. He didn't need the other man to know that he had chosen to call himself Bran simply out of lack of better options, since his full first name, Brandr, struck him as even worse. It wasn't like he really thought that any of those names were _his_ , since they both felt somehow wrong in a way he could not explain. But Brandr Himinson was the only name he had, and he _knew_ it had to be his name – even if he probably wouldn't even react when someone called him by it.

He also didn't need Stark to know that he would be the first person to call Bran by his name at all. Assuming he wouldn't forget it constantly like Bran's landlord had, of course. Somehow the lump in his chest grew even colder, making him grit his teeth. He tried to ignore it, to not give in to the feeling of anxiety. He had hours of flying in front of him, hours he would have to spend with Stark. The last thing Bran needed was to break down when the other man could see.

“I'm Tony, then”, Stark said suddenly, almost startling Bran into turning towards him again.

Even though thinking that the name _Tony_ would most likely never pass his lips, Bran nodded absently. He didn't like at all how Stark was looking at him. Once more he had the feeling that the inventor knew something, and Bran wasn't sure if and how he could figure out what it was. Stark was still watching him, seeming as if he had just realized something that displeased him. And even if that caused Bran to feel a little more concerned, it at least meant that Stark stayed silent for a while.

While Stark sipped his drink, Bran stared out of the window, watching as the jet drifted through the sky. He tried to keep his thoughts blank, to not think about that Stark was _still_ looking at him. He willed his body to remain relaxed, not wanting to let the other man know how agitated he was. Even though he couldn't shake off the feeling that Stark had already noticed that, anyway.

Bran was pulled out of his thoughts when the door to the main room of the jet slid open. Bran furrowed his brow in mild confusion as Hogan entered.

“What's up, Hap?”, Stark said, turning around to face his employee.

“Pepper called”, Hogan informed him, looking slightly worried. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Something wrong? Is she alright?”

“No, she's fine, just – uh. Nick called.”

For only a split second Brand could see Stark's eyes flickering over to him, concern and suspicion showing clearly in them, but the moment was over so quickly that Bran almost wondered if he had only imagined it. Then Stark groaned, evidently unwilling to deal with the matter, but he set his glass aside and stood up.

“I'll be back in a minute, Firespit”, he told Bran before he followed Hogan out of the room.

Bran rolled his eyes at the nickname, but took a relieved breath as soon as Stark was gone. Shifting in his chair, he grabbed his book again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Brandr" means fire or swordblade, by the way. I thought that fits quite well.


	3. Chapter 3

When Stark came back ten minutes later, his mood had obviously worsened. Bran watched as the inventor let himself fall into his seat with a small sigh of annoyance. He avoided meeting Bran's eyes, and Bran found himself pondering over what to do. Whoever “Nick” was, Stark didn't seem to be overly fond of him. He supposed it was some bad news about Stark's business, so it probably didn't matter, but the way Stark had looked at Bran so briefly earlier made Bran feel as if... as if it had something to do with _him_. Bran didn't see himself in the position to ask the other man about that, not even subtly – not yet, at least. He doubted that a such questions would be welcomed at this point, so he filed the name “Nick” away for later and aimed to distract Stark instead.

“Doesn't Mr. Hogan navigate the jet?”, he asked, barely looking up from his book.

“Happy? No, he doesn't.”

Bran almost cracked a smirk at the nickname Stark had apparently dubbed Hogan. If the mood the driver had been in earlier was characteristic, Bran would have called him anything but _Happy._

He waited for Stark to continue, but he didn't say anything else. Bran looked at him inquiringly. He hadn't seen a pilot when he had briefly looked into the cockpit earlier, and so he had just assumed that Hogan occupied that role as well. Stark caught his eyes, and his worried expression crumbled a little as he smiled.

“JARVIS is our pilot”, he explained. “He's an, uh – do you know what an AI is?”

“An Artificial Intelligence?”, Bran guessed, remembering that he had read the term somewhere.

“Exactly.” Stark sounded pleased, gesturing in the air between them while speaking his next words. “He's practically controlling... well, every technical thing that I have. Stark Tower as well.”

Bran couldn't help but be a little bit impressed. He didn't know much about the topic, but what Stark had said sounded like his AI was rather advanced. Also he had not missed that Stark had spoken about JARVIS as if “he” was a regular person.

“He sounds interesting.”

“Oh, he is”, Stark grinned. “And you'll interact with him a lot in the next weeks, probably. Actually, we could – Hey, Jay. Unmute. Introduce yourself.”

“ _Good afternoon, Mr. Himinson_ ”, a polite voice said instantly. “ _I am JARVIS, it's nice to meet you._ ”

Bran blinked, his eyebrows raised at Stark. The man looked at him as if he expected an applause. Bran smirked. “It is... very nice to meet you, too, JARVIS.”

“He's got cameras and speakers in the jet”, Stark said. “And I'll make sure to get him some in our lodging and in the labs in Sweden as well.”

The meaning of that didn't escape Bran – with the AI able to keep his figurative eye on everything, it would be possible that Bran would be watched at every passing second. That alarmed him, but he hid his irritation behind a smile.

“Impressive”, he said, which wasn't even a lie. “You created him?”

“Yup. Also impressive, I know.”

“ _Humble as always, Sir_ ”, JARVIS commented, amusement coloring the disembodied voice.

“What did I tell you about sass, buddy?”

“ _My apologies, Sir. I shall keep it in mind for the future._ ”

Stark just snorted at the dry tone. Bran had followed the short exchange, fascinated despite himself. That wasn't simply an advanced program; JARVIS seemed capable of emotion and almost human interaction that went beyond the mere following of instructions. And it was also obvious that Stark was _fond_ of his AI, speaking of and to him more as a friend instead a technical servant.

“Is JARVIS an acronym?”, Bran asked, unable to hold back his curiosity.

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent System”, Stark recited.

“Ah.” Bran let his smirk widen into a real smile. “Interesting.”

Something about his tone seemed to have caught Stark's attention. “Hm?”

Bran held the other man's gaze, lifting his shoulders. “I am merely wondering if there is a human Jarvis as well.”

Stark's eyes narrowed instantly, his grin faltering at the same time. In a matter of seconds, that look of pure distrust returned, as if Bran's words had reminded him of it.

“There was”, he said, both tone and expression turning blank while his eyes were searching Bran's face.

Bran managed to look like he was scolding himself inwardly, averting his eyes to hide his not that heartfelt remorse from the other man. “My apologies, Mr. Stark”, he said eventually. “I did not mean to be... tactless.”

Oh, he _had_ meant to, and Bran was sure that Stark knew that as well. But still, his sympathy wasn't _entirely_ feigned – he wasn't actually a sadist, he just liked playing games. And finding weak points was always useful. It hadn't been hard to see that that Jarvis was one of Stark's weak points, whoever he was. Or rather, had been.

Stark snorted, apparently more annoyed than amused, but he didn't say anything. Just stared at Bran for a while before he eventually looked away and out of the window. He circled the edge of his glass with his thumb absentmindedly, and Bran turned to his book again.

He still couldn't concentrate on reading.

The atmosphere was strained, and the fact that they were still sitting across from each other made it even worse. Unfortunately, Bran was too stubborn to change his place, even though there were a lot of equally comfortable seats in the room. He was sure it was the same with Stark, and so they sat together in tensed silence. At least, after some time, Bran was able to distract himself with his book, now really reading instead of just pretending. Stark, however... It was rather obvious that he soon got incredibly bored. For about two hours, the man only switched between two activities – tapping away at his phone or watching Bran out of the corner of his eyes while pretending that he was tapping away at his phone. It somehow helped winding down the atmosphere, and Bran found himself slightly amused. Stark seemed to have a restless mind, which surely was something Bran could relate to.

“Do you want to ask me something?”, he said eventually, unable to suppress a smirk when Stark seemed to startle a little.

“No”, the billionaire said instantly, only to correct himself the second after. “I mean, yes. What are you reading?”

Bran looked up, meeting the other man's eyes. “What am I reading? Really?”

“Yes, really. Can't read the title from over here.”

Bran shot Stark an incredulous glance, but lifted his book so Stark could take a look at the cover. Slowly, a grin spread across Stark's face.

“Tolkien”, he said, “you're seriously reading Tolkien.”

“I am”, Bran affirmed. “I'm quite fond of his works, actually.”

“Yeah, you're obviously the type for fantasy.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yes.” Stark chuckled to himself, his eyes glinting. “You know, magic and stuff. Seems like your thing.”

Not for the first time Bran felt as if he had missed a joke, but he decided to not probe into it. He would get behind Stark's strange behaviour sooner or later, Bran was sure of that. For the moment, he decided to play along.

“So, I'd be a sorcerer”, he said casually, “what about you?” He allowed himself a grin. “A hobbit, maybe?”

“That's basically a compliment, you know? So thanks. Hobbits are amazing.”

“And so very short.”

Stark just snorted at that, seemingly unimpressed. Still smiling to himself, Bran returned his attention to “The Silmarillion”, even though his thoughts were circling around what Stark had said. He had no idea why the man acted like he knew Bran even though this was only the second time they had met. It annoyed him without end, and at the same time it piqued his interest – because if Stark _really_ knew something, he could doubtlessly be of use. And it didn't hurt that Stark himself seemed to be not as boring and ignorant as every other person Bran had talked to.

“How many languages do you speak?”, Stark asked suddenly, pulling Bran out of his thoughts.

He looked up, promptly meeting Stark's ever so curious eyes. He frowned a little, unsure of how to answer the question. “Everything about my linguistic skills can be found in my application”, he said in the end, which earned him an almost impressive eye roll from Stark.

“Sure. I'm asking you, though.”

Bran shot the other man an annoyed glance, but decided to give in. “More than you could even list, probably.”

“That's not an exact answer.”

“Correct.”

In fact, Bran wasn't _able_ to give an exact answer – in his application he had enumerated all the languages that struck him as most important or impressive, but had not nearly mentioned every single one he could speak. In the beginning, he had started a list, updating it with every new language he was able to understand and to speak. In that time he had tried to get his hands on texts in every existing language, and he had not found a single one he hadn't been able to read. And soon he had given it up, because his list had gotten far too long.

It was just as simple as it was impossible, but by now he had accepted the fact that there was no language he could not speak. But that was most likely _too_ impossible to tell Stark. Besides, it made Bran oddly dizzy every time he thought about it. Thankfully it seemed that the billionaire had accepted that vague reply as the only one he would get.

“And what exactly do you do? As a job, I mean.”

“I am currently employed at Stark Industries as an interpreter.”

“Oh, really? How is it so far?”

“Time will tell, I think”, Bran replied, holding Stark's gaze for a moment before he decided that telling Stark a little bit about his earlier life couldn't hurt. He knew that people were more likely to give away information when they got some in return.

“I have never worked as an interpreter before”, he admitted first of all. “I used to work from home, translating texts. Most of the time articles or essays, occasionally books. I have published a few linguistic works of my own as well.”

Stark gave a pensive hum. Bran could tell that the inventor was listening attentively, but it still seemed as if nothing Bran had said had been entirely new information for the other man. His next question was a surprise, however.

“Do you enjoy it?”

Bran blinked. “Pardon?”

“Your work, do you like it?”

It took Bran only a moment to realize that he had never thought about that. And he noticed only now that he didn't even know _why_ he was doing what he did for a living, only that he had always done it. He hesitated long enough for Stark to look at him enquiringly, and Bran promptly tried to hide his own confusion.

“I do like words”, he said slowly, “and I always found that, by mastering one's handling of them and learning to express oneself accurately, one can gain...”

“Power?”, Stark filled in, causing Bran to shrug.

“Perhaps. Among other things.”

“Maybe you should think about becoming a politician”, Stark quipped, only to furrow his brow in the next moment. “Or rather, don't. Please don't get any ideas now.”

Bran found himself chuckling, of all things, and Stark seemed just as surprised about that as Bran himself. “Don't worry”, Bran said dryly. “I think being in such a position is not something I would enjoy.”

And he could have slapped himself for that honesty as soon as he saw the interest flaring up in Stark's eyes.

“You wouldn't enjoy power?”, the inventor asked, sounding utterly disbelieving for some reason. “Is that what you mean?”

“I didn't say that.”

Stark quirked his brow, prompting Bran to elaborate. After a moment of glaring back stubbornly, Bran let out a small sigh. Hel, he had no idea why they were talking about this.

“I just wouldn't want a throne”, he said, sounding defensive and hating himself for it.

Stark stayed quiet for a moment, looking at Bran as if wondering if he had heard correctly. “Did you just link politicians to a throne?”

Bran rolled his eyes – he didn't need to explain what a metaphor was, did he? – and pointedly returned his attention to his book. He hoped Stark would let the topic drop, but he wasn't that lucky.

“Having a problem with responsibility?”, Stark asked, sounding strangely amused.

“More with restriction”, Bran corrected coolly.

“Restriction”, Stark repeated.

Bran sighed and looked at the other man again. Stark was grinning, a spark in his eyes that spoke very clearly of his amusement. Bran snorted faintly, putting on a smirk.

“I'm sure you know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“You were leading your own company for a while, haven't you?” Bran held Stark's gaze without difficulties, even though there was still agitation bubbling in his chest. He simply willed it down, like always. “You know how utterly restrictive leadership can be. How _boring_. There's barely any room for fun.”

“Been in a position like that before?”, Stark asked, his curiosity evident.

“No”, Bran dismissed, tensing up immediately. “But I have a rather vivid imagination.”

Stark hummed, still looking at Bran in something like amused fascination. “I think you're right”, he announced then. “You'd be awful at leading, probably.”

That earned him a scowl, because Bran believed that he _would_ be perfectly capable of leading, thank you very much. He just didn't like the dullness of it, the lack of real change. He was on the edge of clarifying, of making Stark understand, but before he could even open his mouth Stark huffed a laugh. Shaking his head, the inventor leaned back in his seat and kept smirking to himself.

“What?”, Bran inquired when Stark didn't stop staring at him as if Bran had just turned his world upside down.

“Nothing.” Stark's grin faded out a little as he shook his head again, his look getting more thoughtful now. “You surprise me, that's all.”

“Do I now.”

Stark stayed quiet while they looked at each other, and after some time he stood up to get himself another drink. Bran could hear another chuckle while Stark prepared another glass, and all Bran could do was scowl and ponder.

He was completely sure that Stark _knew_ that he had managed to make Bran suspicious, that his behaviour was not reasonable or normal in any way. But it also seemed that Stark didn't care about that in the slightest. The man was playing a game whose rules Bran didn't yet understand. Bran didn't know what to make of all those hints Stark supplied – because they _were_ hints, weren't they? He just needed to be patient, to play along, and somehow and sometime the individual pieces would fall together.

Maybe.

It could still be that Stark was simply insane. The mischief glinting in his eyes seemed to be a good sign for that. But if there was anything Bran loved, and he wasn't sure at all if there was, then that would be a good game. And he was never unwilling to play. He didn't remember ever having an opponent that was his equal, and while he was sure that Stark wouldn't be one either, the inventor at least seemed able and willing to keep up with him. For a while.

“You haven't been in New York very long, have you?”

That had come out of the blue, and caused Bran to frown at the other man who was sitting across from him again. The man seemed to have far too many questions regarding Bran, and that didn't fail to make him uncomfortable. “Why are you asking?”

“I'm interested. So?”

Bran slowly shook his head, searching Stark's face for a sign of... _something_. “No, I moved to New York only recently.”

Stark hummed in acknowledgment, seeming pensive. “When?”

“Three months ago”, Bran answered, and after a short moment of hesitation he added, “I lived in Norway, before that.”

“Your whole life?”

“Yes”, Bran said without thinking. He felt slightly dazed, suddenly, and his stomach lurched. Blinking, he tried to keep a blank face and force the feeling to go away before Stark noticed that something was wrong.

“I think I've never really been to Norway before”, Stark said conversationally. “I mean, I was in Oslo, once. But only for business, so that doesn't really count.”

Bran didn't reply. He didn't trust his voice. He couldn't even look at Stark. After a moment, the inventor spoke up again, and Bran was on the verge of lashing out at the other man.

“And why New York? Needed a change?”

“Something of that sort.” He sounded too flat. His heart beat too fast.

He didn't remember living in Norway his whole life.

Everything he could think of, every single memory seemed blurry and amiss, as if –

He tried to push them all away, to not think of them. To forget that they were all _wrong._ He needed to get rid of the feeling that they didn't belong to him. They were everything he had. He knew that he grew up in Norway, that he had spent his whole life there. He _knew_ that, just like he knew what his name was, and it was ridiculous to doubt it.

Stark said something, probably another question Bran had no real answer to, but Bran barely noticed that the other man was speaking.

His chest felt tight. He wanted to tug at the collar of his shirt, needing more room and more air to breathe, but his hands wouldn't move. They couldn't; Stark was sitting right there, watching him, seeing him _._ He shouldn't do this right now. He didn't want this, he needed to calm down and talk to Stark like any other normal human would. But there was something missing, he knew there was, and he had to remember and _couldn't_.

His vision blurred a little. Maybe it even darkened at the seams, and maybe he was about to black out completely, that had happened before, hadn't it, but not now and _not here_ because he was not alone and there was someone _seeing him_ and -

His breathing hitched, and Norns, gasping for air in front of another person, in front of Stark, was not something he would do. He needed to pull himself together and to forget again, and he knew he would. _Breathe_. He needed to breathe, calmly, because he needed the air if he didn't want his brain to short-circuit and black out for real.

And that was a coherent thought, right, so he held onto it as tightly as he could.

Stark was gone. That was the first thing Bran noticed when he came to his senses again. The man didn't sit across from him anymore, and all Bran could feel was relief. He raised his hands to rub his eyes, letting out a sigh. His throat felt sore and constricted, but thankfully his cheeks were dry. He hadn't cried, and he hadn't passed out. Maybe, hopefully, Stark hadn't even been able to tell what was going on. More often than not, these _lapses_ happened only inwardly. For all he knew, he could have looked completely bored and Stark had simply -

“Here.”

Bran almost flinched, his head snapping around to Stark who was standing right there next to him, offering him a glass filled with what was presumably water. For a moment, Bran just stared at him, mere horror prickling beneath his skin.

Stark hadn't been gone at all. Stark had been there, and Stark had noticed... probably everything, judging by the look in his eyes.

It wasn't pity, though. Thankfully.

“I'm starting to feel stupid, Bambi.” Stark's eyes flickered down to the glass he still held, seemingly uncertain.

Bran swallowed, and took the glass. He nodded at Stark, only subtly, before he took a careful first sip. Water indeed. He glanced back at Stark, and he was surprised to see something like anger flashing over the other man's face.

“Better?”, Stark asked. “Water is always, you know, good. When I... uh. Anyway. I'll just...”

Stark trailed off and Bran blinked, unable to make anything out of the inventor's scrambled sentences right now. He still felt somewhat numb. But he nodded anyway, unable to shake off the impression that Stark was trying to comfort him. Bran's next words just escaped from his lips, so quiet that they almost weren't audible.

“Thank you.”

After a moment of evident surprise, Stark nodded. Then he turned away and sat down in a different chair, not looking at Bran again. Bran kept the glass in his hand and didn't look at the other man either.

So. _Bambi_. Where had that come from?

 


	4. Chapter 4

Scandinavia.

Alcohol?

Magic.

Power.

 _Bambi_.

Those words were circling in Bran's head since he had left the bed half an hour ago. All of them were hints, links to whatever it was that Stark knew. Those topics had caused the billionaire to smirk, to laugh, to quirk an eyebrow in surprise. There was also the suspicion that was so clearly directed at Bran, the knowledge that Stark saw a potential threat in him. But that was the thing that made least sense of all, and since most people seemed to mistrust and fear Bran out of instinct anyway, he was not sure if that belonged on his little list as well. He kept it in mind, however.

Bran didn't know what to make out of those words, though. He had thought deeply about every single one of them, had been lying awake for that very reason the whole night. They made absolutely no sense to him. He couldn't say what was so wondrous about the fact that he came from Norway, or what about his refusal of a drink had made Stark chuckle like he had. What about him had caused the other man to think that Bran was one for magic and power? And then that nickname that didn't really fit – it wasn't connected to his name or his behaviour, was it? Bran didn't think he had anything in common with that ridiculous deer.

Bran refused to think that there was no reasonable explanation for Stark's admittedly strange reactions, mostly because he _wanted_ one to exist. If Stark really did know something the man possibly had the power to clear the mess of Bran's mind. That was the only hope he had. And even though looking into that most likely meant more anxiety, more dazedness and maybe even more nightmares, Bran couldn't help but want to take the chance.

These thoughts made him stay longer in the shower of his en-suite bathroom than needed and intended, but Norns, he was so _confused._ He had felt like this before, a few times. When he had seen the skyline of New York for the first time, when he had by chance listened to some opera song he hadn't ever heard before – sights and things that seemingly wanted to tell him something, that brought up the feeling that they should mean something to him. That feeling always passed – it took a panic attack or two, but it _always_ passed.

Right now, it didn't. And Bran couldn't help the feeling that Stark was to blame for that.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he threw a glance at the alarm clock at the bedside table, scowling when he realized that he hadn't that much time left. He dressed quickly and had left his room soon after that. The corridor was empty and Bran didn't bother approaching Stark's door. They had agreed to meet after breakfast, and he liked having some time to himself before the his first day of work began. He tried to order his thoughts while he made his way to the dining area they had been shown the evening before.

He and Stark had not talked for the rest of the flight, had barely even looked at each other. When they had landed in Uppsala, a car had already been waiting for them. Hogan had all but scared away the poor young Swede that had wanted to drive them. Stark had spent the better part of the drive speaking to Miss Potts on the phone (“We're only two hours late, Pep, this is basically a record” – “I _told_ you that everything's fine, stop worrying” – “I promise I'll tell you everything later, okay?”). Bran had looked out of the window, listening only halfheartedly. Relief that he had finally left New York behind had been practically flooding through his veins, and for a few blissful moments he had been... well, not happy. But something similar to content, maybe.

It had been early evening when they had arrived at CSN. Bran had asked Stark what the letters stood for, but the inventor had just shrugged in clear disinterest. Well, Bran knew the most important things – it was one of the biggest research institutes of Europe, located in an outlying district of Uppsala. They would spend literally all of their time in CSN's localities. Stark had made sure that they had a whole floor in one of the buildings that contained the accommodations for guests, and the inventor had also said something about a personal lab for his own uses.

Stark had also told Bran why they were in Sweden at all, at least to some extent. They were to meet with a few of the most skilled scientists the world had to offer, and all of them were interested in one of Stark's inventions. Stark didn't seem to like that, and it sounded as if he wouldn't be here at all if Miss Potts hadn't persuaded him. However she had managed that was a mystery, though – Stark seemed protective of his creation, and Bran somehow doubted that Stark would let anyone else than himself get his hands on it. And agreeing to a bunch of meetings and hours in laboratories where scientists Stark didn't even know would want to study his invention? No, something about that just didn't make sense, but Bran knew better then to comment on that. Instead, he had asked about that mysterious invention that all of this seemed to be about.

“It's a new element”, had been Stark's answer. “My father discovered it, I created it.”

Because yes, that was something people did. Obviously.

Yes, fine, Bran had been a little bit impressed. And oh so curious – he hoped he would get a chance to take a look at Stark's creation himself, and given the fact that he would be present at each and every meeting, it was very likely that he would.

If there hadn't been that terribly annoying feeling of confusion and mere _wrongness_ , Bran would have looked forward to this job. Almost.

Stark's suite was directly next to Bran's room, and it annoyed him more than it probably should. Last evening, Bran had found it somewhat unfair that he hadn't gotten a suite as well, but he had been too tired and annoyed to complain. Now he found himself bothered more by the fact that Stark would be so _close_ all the time. Bran didn't want that man in the rooms directly next to his own, and it didn't matter that there were walls and locked doors between them – it still felt like Stark was keeping an eye on him. As if he wanted to be able to get to Bran in an instant, just in case Bran decided to burn the building down and had to be stopped.

But it was only now that he remembered JARVIS. The thought of the AI made him stop on his way to the elevators, needing a moment to swallow down the sudden feeling of dread. Stark had promised to make sure his AI had access to their quarters as well, hadn't he? Norns, how Bran hated being _watched_. He decided to search his room for cameras as soon as he could. Maybe he should do so on a regular basis.

When Bran got going again he noticed that there were a few other doors on their floor, and he remembered that Miss Potts and Hogan were probably accommodated here as well. Well, if Miss Potts didn't share Stark's suite, which she probably did. Bran recalled reading something about their liaison.

Having arrived in the refractory, Bran realized that he wasn't even hungry. He almost never was, nowadays. Maybe eating something would make the nausea he was feeling even worse, but he hadn't eaten something since breakfast the day before (he had declined every offer Stark had made during the flight, knowing that he wouldn't have gotten anything down). So he made his way to the buffet, eyeing the food with mild suspicion. Nothing looked all too tempting, but well, one probably couldn't expect a five star meal in the refectory of a science institute. Sighing, he settled for things he knew and somewhat liked, and then he showed the ID card he had gotten yesterday to the peevish lady sitting at the register. The card told anyone that Tony Stark had already paid for Bran's food, which was rather practical. After that, he retreated to a table in one corner of the room.

There were a few other people in the rather wide room with him, but nobody looked at him, let alone greeted him. Bran was used to that, preferred it even. He had never been particularly fond of people, always one to keep to himself and observe. It was a pity that everybody present seemed terribly boring. Most of them looked like they were engrossed in work already, staring at screens or paper, and after a time Bran gave up trying to spot anything interesting, dwelling on his own thoughts instead. He began brooding over his list again.

Eventually, a familiar clacking of heels caught his attention, causing him to look up and search the room. He spotted them immediately – Miss Potts, looking perfectly prim and proper for seven am, Hogan, who looked around the room as if he expected something terrible to happen at every moment, and Stark, of course.

Hel, the man looked _awful_.

He was walking a bit behind Miss Potts and Hogan, painfully close to dragging his feet. He wore another obviously expensive suit, but somehow that made him appear even more tousled and grumpy.

Bran looked at the trio only for a second before he slowly continued eating his breakfast, hoping that none of them had seen him watching them. He didn't exactly like the prospect of talking to Stark again, not after what had happened on the plane. And even though Miss Potts had been very nice and polite to him the evening before, he still had felt as if she had been... angry with him. There hadn't been much left of the fear she had regarded him with the first time. Her obvious dislike was almost amusing, somehow. If something hadn't told him that an angry Miss Potts should better be avoided.

“Hey.”

Bran looked up from his plate and saw Stark standing next to his table. He had to suppress a sigh, but he didn't even try to hide his disapproval. “Good morning.”

The man looked even worse now that he was close. The mess of his hair didn't seem wanted or artfully arranged, more as if Stark just hadn't bothered touching a comb. His bloodshot eyes showed restlessness and pure reluctance. His tie was sloppily loosened and a few buttons of his dress shirt stood open, revealing more skin than appropriate. Bran frowned when he noticed a faint glow and a round outline beneath the fabric covering Stark's chest, but he tore his eyes away from that before curiosity could get the better of him.

“Pepper says I should invite you to eat with us”, Stark said, sounding even more annoyed than he looked. He had probably noticed Bran's staring.

“I decline, but thank you. I am nearly done anyway.”

Stark looked down at Bran's still almost full plate. There was pause before he said, “She won't let me have my coffee until you come over.”

Bran blinked, a bit confused. “Maybe you should try tea, then?”

Stark's lips formed a smile that was only slightly threatening. “Listen”, he said slowly, “I don't really care if you eat alone or with us. But Pep's worried, so you can either get your ass over to our table or I'll make you.”

“Oh?” Bran returned the other man's gaze, unimpressed. “Why is Miss Potts worried?”

Stark shrugged, and then he took the tray with Bran's breakfast and walked away. For a moment, Bran considered just leaving. But well, if he wanted to ever get on Stark's or Miss Potts' good side, he should probably accept Stark's oh so friendly offer. When he arrived at the table where Miss Potts was sitting, Stark was already on his way to the buffet, probably to get coffee. Bran quickly scanned the room for Hogan who seemed to be busy piling up food on his plate.

“Good morning”, Miss Potts greeted him friendly. “I'm sorry if he was rude, he's not a morning person.”

“I noticed”, Bran replied, putting on a smile that resembled hers. He hadn't missed how she had subtly looked him over, the look in her eyes almost cold.

“I just thought you might want company?”, Miss Potts asked while he sat down across from her. “You don't have to eat with us, of course.”

“I'd be glad to.”

“Did you sleep well? I hope your room is okay?”

“It's perfectly fine, thank you.”

A few more courtesies later Bran was already bored to death. He didn't want to be rude to Miss Potts, though, knowing that Stark wouldn't like that. It wasn't like he wanted Stark to like him, but that would certainly make things easier. Good, getting the other man to _like_ him was off limits, probably. But he still needed Stark to cooperate, and for that he should avoid getting on his wrong side.

Stark was the first to return to their table, sitting down with a thud and a cup of coffee. He didn't even glance at Bran, and Bran tried to keep his own observations subtle. He wondered what the man had been up to the previous night – he obviously hadn't slept, but somehow Bran couldn't imagine that Stark had spent his sleepless time just brooding like Bran had. Maybe he had been working? Bran was curious, but asking was probably not an option.

“You should eat something”, Miss Potts broke the silence, her tone distinctly softer. More genuine.

“Not hungry.”

“Tony.”

Stark looked at Miss Potts over the edge of his cup. “Go and get yourself something to eat, Pep. They even have raspberry jelly, I know that's your favorite.”

The redhead rolled her eyes, glancing at Bran before standing up. Stark didn't talk to Bran after she was gone, and Bran was glad about that. For him, Stark wouldn't make an effort in being nice like he had for Miss Potts. Soon, Hogan came back to the table as well, and it seemed that he was clever enough to stay silent as well. He probably was used to his boss' terrible morning moods.

It was awkward and boring, and Bran was now even less hungry than before. He felt Miss Potts' and Hogan's mistrusting eyes on him now, knew they were trying to decide what to make of him. He didn't know what he had _done_ to deserve such suspicion, and it was the most frustrating thing he had ever felt. Stark was just ignoring him, ignoring all of them, and now Bran almost wanted to engage him in conversation. Because at least Stark had looked at him not only with wariness but fascination as well, at least Stark was one he could tease and banter with. It hadn't been boring, talking to him. He couldn't deny that it had felt good to be listened to, to be _seen_ for the first time in what had to be years. Stark had positively soaked up every word Bran had said. Always searching and digging for some information Bran didn't know he had. Stark had been attentive and witty and challenging, and wasn't that just as unsettling as it was _wonderful_.

Oh, that was a dangerous road to go. Bran knew that. He should be withdrawn and wary instead of fascinated, and he _was._ He was. Stark had seen him scared and lost and weak. Twice already, actually. He didn't want that to happen again, and he would take care that it didn't. He had to make sure he was in control, that he wasn't being played like he intended to play Stark. Basking in attention wasn't something he could afford, and Norns be damned, he was not _that_ pathetic.

He really wasn't, but that didn't mean he was fond of awkward silence. Bran hoped it wouldn't be too difficult to time his meals differently so _this_ wouldn't happen again. This was exactly the reason why he hadn't had any social contacts during the last year – people just didn't talk to him. They were stiff and distanced whenever he was near, as if they couldn't wait to get rid of him again.

Stark was the exception, so it had seemed on the flight.

“So... You're from Norway, aren't you?”, a voice said, making him want to sigh and roll his eyes.

He smiled at Miss Potts. “Yes, I am.”

“It's a beautiful country.”

“It is.” _Norns_.

“Why did you move to New York?”

Miss Potts sounded friendly, curious, her eyes attentively fixed on him. The look in them was unyielding. Hogan stared at him as well, and briefly Bran wondered how much trouble it would earn him if he spun a story that involved a preferably long crime record and elopement.

“Ah”, he said instead, making his smile become apologetic, maybe even a little bit sheepish. “Personal reasons.”

“Oh, I see. And how -”

“Pepper”, came from Stark, the word almost a whine. “Don't small talk him. It's too early for small talk.”

He was at his third cup of coffee by now, and apparently his mood had lightened a bit. At Miss Potts' request he had even gotten himself something to eat, even though he was actually just poking at his scrambled eggs and maneuvering them back and forth on his plate.

“You know, some people start their days earlier than noon”, Miss Potts retorted dryly.

“We can't all be early birds. Couldn't we just do all that business stuff in the afternoons? Because we should.”

“I don't think so.”

Stark was almost pouting. “Look, Pep, if you've been up the whole night you just can't _function_ in the mornings. And work and meetings aren't an option like, at all.”

“You're functioning well enough in your lab”, Miss Potts reminded him gently.

“Yeah, that's different.” Before Miss Potts could say anything in response, Stark looked at Bran, his brows raised in a playful demand. “You agree, right?”

Bran just stared at the moment for a second, not quite sure why he was suddenly dragged into this. “Should I?”

Stark pointed at Bran with his fork.“I know another insomniac when I see one, Daggers. You look just as bad as me.”

“I doubt that's possible.”

“Rude.”

“He's right, though”, Hogan chimed in, which earned him a glare from Stark and an approving chuckle from Miss Potts.

The discussion kept going for a while, but it was obvious that it was more playful bantering than a real disagreement. Apparently, it wasn't the first time Stark and Miss Potts had this discussion. The two seemed to be an well-practiced team, the both sided respect obvious beneath aimed teasing and annoyed eye rolls. They fit well together, and it was almost fascinating to watch. Now, with Stark in a better mood, the atmosphere was lighter. Hogan took part in the conversation as well, and it turned out that he even had a sense of humor that wasn't all too bad. To some extent, Bran could understand why they called him Happy. And Miss Potts seemed kind and caring, even when Stark made her livid. Bran would have liked her, probably, and maybe even Hogan if he hadn't known what it was that had caused the change in their behaviour.

He knew that it was because the attention wasn't focused on him anymore. The most people just _forgot_ that he was there when he didn't make his presence felt for a while. People just tended to ignore things that made them uncomfortable, even when they had been overly wary of him mere moments ago. That seemed to be the case with Miss Potts and Hogan now as well, given the fact that they didn't even stare at him anymore. Bran was relieved, at least a little. He didn't exactly enjoy being mistrusted all the time, even though he liked to use that suspicion and fear for small pranks now and then. But now that he couldn't afford playing such games, it was only exhausting. So he was rather glad that Hogan and Miss Potts left him be.

Stark, though – Stark still looked at him, now an then. Only small glances out of the corner of his eye, just enough for Bran to know that the inventor was still aware of his presence. But he didn't try to involve Bran in their conversation again, and Bran wasn't sure whether he was thankful or disappointed about that.

Maybe a little bit of both. He was still kind of bored, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CSN stands for Clever Scientific Name, by the way. Because sadly I'm lazy like that.  
> And, just in case anyone's interested: I have a tumblr! Using the same name there as here. There's not much going on there, but [come and visit me](https://amidnight--dreary.tumblr.com/) if you want! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Gustav Mortensen was an intelligent man. Annoying, yes, but intelligent. He had a few doctorates Bran didn't care about, and maybe he was a little bit too sure of the fact that he was Denmark's currently most renowned scientist. Bran didn't doubt that he was an excellent physicist as well as chemist, or else he wouldn't even work at CSN. Apparently, he had been at the institute for a rather long time already, but it was more his mention of his specialization in the field of new energy that had piqued Bran's interest. Mortensen was the chairman of the group of scientists that would be all over Stark and his creation in the following weeks, so maybe Stark's new element was actually a new source of energy? Bran didn't know that much about that topic, and the research he had done on Stark Industries before this trip didn't really help him out. But he was interested and curious, and sure that he would figure this whole thing out eventually. _Patience._

They had met up with Mortensen right after breakfast. Hogan had disappeared to do, well, something, probably, and so it was only Bran, Stark and Miss Potts who were shown around at CSN's localities by the danish scientist. Stark had tried to get out of it as well, muttering something about going to “the lab”, but Miss Potts had somehow gotten him to stay. And so they were now following Mortensen as he led them every which way over the terrain, pointing at buildings and telling not that funny anecdotes about anything and nothing. Bran kept himself in the background, walking a few steps behind the others, and soaked up every smallest bit of information he could get. It wasn't much, because neither Mortensen nor Stark or Miss Potts mentioned any useful detail. Bran just told himself to be patient – right after this tour the first real meeting would take place, and there they would negotiate the details Bran longed for.

And maybe he would even get something actual to do, which wasn't yet the case. Mortensen's English was rather good, and there wasn't any need for an interpreter. Actually, Bran had already wondered why and _if_ an interpreter would be needed at all. CSN didn't just engage Swedish scientists. What language did they speak here, if not English? Every scientist who wanted his work to be known internationally published it in English, and Bran somehow doubted that anyone of the scientists they were to meet wouldn't be able to understand Miss Potts and Stark. He didn't know for sure, yet, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder why he was even here.

It was another question he hadn't yet an answer for.

He was pulled out of his pondering when he noticed that Stark wasn't walking next to Miss Potts anymore. He was letting himself fall behind, leaving the redhead and Mortensen to their conversation. Bran pretended not to notice, but that got impossible when Stark was suddenly walking next to _him_.

“Enjoying yourself, Gandalf?”

Bran didn't even roll his eyes at the nickname. “Immensely.”

Stark smirked. “Yeah, same. Do you think he'll start floating if he continues giving himself airs like that?”

Bran gave a pensive hum. “Maybe. But only if he isn't too busy flirting with Miss Potts.”

The inventor laughed. “Noticed that too, did you? He's gonna get himself slapped if he keeps that up.”

“At least that should keep him grounded.”

Bran glanced over to Mortensen, who apparently didn't realize that Miss Potts was warding off all his clumsy attempts at making their conversation more... personal. It was a little bit awkward, and Bran was already hoping that Mortensen wouldn't join them at their meals. The three Americans were already enough to endure.

“I noticed something”, Stark announced proudly, causing Bran to shoot him a skeptical look.

“About me, I presume?”

“Yes”, he shrugged, “well, more about what you do to other people.”

Bran tensed, fighting off a small wave of panic. “I didn't do anything.”

“No, I don't –“, Stark began immediately, but broke himself off again. “I mean, yeah, I know. I don't think it's your fault. It's more like, uh, an effect you have? I'm not sure.”

Bran forced himself to relax, telling himself that he shouldn't let Stark see how intimidated he was. But because he knew that it was actually already too late to hide that, he kept his mouth shut at first, swallowing down a snarky remark.

“And what did you notice?”, he asked eventually, looking at Stark with a hopefully unfazed expression.

“Oh”, Stark said, “well, that nobody's noticing _you_ , I guess. It's weird.”

His tone was light, but he was eyeing Bran cautiously again. Bran wasn't sure whether the other man was suspicious again or if he was merely careful. Either way, Bran didn't really know what to say – he knew of course what Stark was hinting at, but he hadn't thought he'd ever be confronted with that. But gladly Stark didn't wait for an answer for very long, already keeping on talking.

“Like Pepper and Happy at breakfast”, he said. “Pepper wanted you to eat with us, right, and then she just...”

“Ignored me?”, Bran finished the sentence when Stark seemed to fail finding the right word.

After a moment, Stark shook his head. “No. They weren't ignoring you, they _forgot_ you.”

“I didn't do much to catch their attention”, Bran said coldly. He had averted his eyes from Stark.

“Yeah”, Stark agreed slowly. “But they didn't even look at you anymore. As if you weren't there at all.”

Bran didn't say anything in response, and for a while they just walked next to each other in uncomfortable silence. It was Stark who spoke up again in the end, which wasn't really a surprise.

“They're doing it again, you know”, he said, nodding over to where Miss Potts and Mortensen where walking. “Whatever it is. I bet they've totally forgotten that you're there.”

“Maybe I'm just someone who is likely to be overseen”, Bran retorted, not expecting the snort Stark gave in response.

“Oh, come on”, he said, returning Bran's scowl with a disbelieving glance. “We're talking about _you_ here.”

“What about me?”, Bran shot back, unable to keep his defensiveness in check.

For the first time since their conversation began, Stark showed one of his characteristic grins. “Someone as freaking tall and hot as you are? And with all that mystery stuff you've got going? Yeah, totally _likely_ to be overseen.”

“Mystery stuff”, Bran repeated dryly, still scowling at the other man.

“Mystery stuff”, Stark confirmed, his tone making it quite hard to tell whether he was serious or just trying to mock Bran. “I'm sure you know what I mean.”

“I'm sure I do not.”

Stark just smiled, averting his eyes to look forward. “People should be staring at you everywhere you go”, he said. “They should, but they don't. And I really wonder why.”

Bran was starting to get frustrated, but he grit his teeth and tried to remain calm. “I don't know why”, he forced himself to say after a few seconds.

“So that's a regular thing, yes?

Bran glanced over to Stark, who looked at him with mere curiosity. Bran realized that Stark was _fascinated_ by this – that he wasn't, at least not only, asking out of suspicion, but because he wanted to know the answers to his questions and Bran was the only one who could possibly have them.

“Yes”, Bran said, his anger mostly replaced by confusion. “It is.”

There was a pause, and Bran could practically hear Stark thinking. “Do people even notice you if you don't make them?”, the inventor asked then, pensive.

“No”, Bran answered, unwilling to go into depth about his, well, _invisibility._

“You must have some theories”, Stark said. For the first time he sounded like the scientist that he was. “At least _some_ ideas why that happens.”

“One”, Bran said.

“And?”

“I make people uncomfortable”, Bran said flatly. Saying it out loud didn't feel nice, even though he had thought about it a million times before. “People avoid things that make them uncomfortable.”

“There must be more”, Stark replied, evidently not convinced, but Bran only shrugged. It was the only explanation he could offer.

“But you don't actually want to be seen anyway, right?”, Stark asked, apparently not willing to let the topic drop that easily.

But when Bran made a point in not replying, Stark gladly seemed to get the message. He didn't look at Stark, but he could feel the man's eyes on him. Neither of them said anything for a rather long time, listening to Mortensen's cheerful chatter that was carried over to them. Bran found himself thinking, and in the end he dared to ask something in return.

“But what about you?”

“Hmm?”

“You're not...” Bran broke off, not knowing how to finish his sentence, and made a vague gesture instead.

“Avoiding you?”, Stark suggested.

Bran was cringing inwardly. Norns, it was his own fault, he should have just let it be. He forced himself to nod, though, and kept his eyes away from Stark while he waited for an answer.

“It works with me too, I think”, Stark said eventually. “You kind of... fade out, sometimes. It's the strangest thing.”

Bran didn't really understand – how could he _fade out_? He didn't actually turn invisible now and then, did he? – but he didn't ask for an explanation. He wasn't sure if Stark would be _able_ to explain. It didn't sound like he could, and so Bran didn't ask.

“But you haven't forgotten me”, he said instead, glancing over to Miss Potts. “Like them.”

It seemed that Stark didn't really know what to say to that, because he took some time to answer. “I keep reminding myself that you're here, I guess”, he said then, hesitantly.

Bran didn't know how to respond to that. He wanted to know why – why Stark and the others were acting like they were, why all that suspicion, why everything felt so _wrong_ all the time _–_ but didn't quite dare to ask. It would probably be against the rules of the game they were playing. He doubted that Stark would tell him anything if Bran required it directly and bluntly. No, he'd most likely get distant and overly suspicious again, and at the moment that wouldn't get Bran forward.

He had no idea _what_ would get him forward, though. Not yet, anyway.

But it was sort of... pleasant, that Stark positively refused to oversee Bran. Unsettling, mostly, but pleasant as well. But still, Bran couldn't comprehend why Stark, of all people, had to be the exception to that rule, the rule that _nobody_ ever really saw Bran. There had to be a reason for that. Maybe Stark was just more wary of Bran than the others, and his stubbornness did the rest? That didn't really seem like a good enough explanation.

“Bran?”

Bran blinked and turned to Stark, mildly confused. He hadn't really expected – or particularly wanted – hearing that name out of Stark's mouth. And Stark himself sounded just as reluctant using it as Bran felt uncomfortable hearing it. Anyway, reacting to it was probably a must.

“Yes?”

“Is that a, uh, an okay thing to talk about?”

“Pardon?”

Stark stared at Bran for only one second before he looked away, seemingly contrite. “Your fade out thing”, he said. “You don't mind talking about that?”

It didn't take long until Bran grasped the meaning of that. It made him tense up instantly, even though more out of confusion and surprise than anxiety.

“It's fine”, he dismissed, hoping that Stark would let it drop.

“Okay”, Stark said, “just, uh. Tell me if it's _not_ , okay? You can -”

“I said it's _fine_ ”, Bran hissed.

Stark immediately took a step to the side to bring more distance between them, his hands lifted to show that he gave in. It looked mocking, somehow, even though that didn't quite fit to the way Stark still stared at him. With some trouble, Bran held back a sneer, and then he turned away to avoid seeing the wariness in Stark's eyes. He was angry, more with himself than with Stark, and oh so relieved that Stark had finally shut up. He didn't know how to handle that hint of _concern_ in Stark's voice, although it was barely even there and mingled with a whole lot of reluctance.

Stark was dreading another panic attack, that much was obvious. Dreading to _cause_ another, for that matter. Of course Stark was aware that he had set off Bran's lapse on the flight to Sweden, and then it had even seemed that he had felt somewhat bad about it. Bran hadn't known what to make out of that, and that hadn't changed until now. And there was still the possibility that Stark was faking sympathy to catch Bran off guard at some point. Which was far more likely than _sincere_ sympathy.

Suddenly, Bran remembered a moment at breakfast – Miss Potts, asking him about Norway and his past, and then Stark, stopping her. (“Don't small talk him.”) And then he thought of what had caused his panic attack on the flight, questions about Norway and – _Oh._

How had he not _seen_ that?

The sudden realization almost made Bran stop dead in his tracks, but he managed to pull himself together and carry it off well. But of course, Stark must have kept in mind that Bran didn't like personal questions about his earlier life in Norway, and when Miss Potts had tried to broach that topic – Norns, believing that Stark had prevented that on purpose, to _help_ Bran... that was ridiculous.

 _Tell me if it's_ not _, okay?_

Bran couldn't get rid of these words; they just didn't want to leave his head. They had been nothing else than a request to inform Stark in case he was digging too deep, maybe even a reassurance that Stark would stop digging as soon as Bran asked for it.

Stark had not the slightest reason to promise something like that. Really, if Bran had been in Stark's position, he probably would have tried _causing_ more panic attacks instead of helping to _avoid_ them. Because they certainly were a source of information, weren't they? And remembering how Stark had looked at him when they had met the first time, with that hint of pure despise in his eyes, Bran wouldn't have been surprised if Stark liked seeing him suffer. But there was no real reason for that either, was there?

Probably Stark had just found it awkward when Bran had lost it on the plane, and now he didn't want it to happen again.

Maybe he really just didn't like small talk at seven am in the morning.

He didn't expect any form of _gratitude_ now, did he? Bran would actually rather suffer through three joint meals a day than bring that topic up again, let alone to thank Stark. Oh, no, that wouldn't happen. And it probably wasn't even necessary, given the fact that Stark didn't seem like a sentimental man either. Thank gods.

Bran's rumbling thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Miss Potts and Mortensen stopped before them in front of a mostly glassy building. Bran was rather glad to be distracted from his mild shock, and tried to file it away for later. It was easier now that Stark's attention wasn't on him anymore. Mortensen had beckoned the billionaire over to him, obviously excited.

“In here is our work space”, he announced with a smile. “We have a few labs and meeting rooms to ourselves. I'm sure it will be to your satisfaction.”

“Sure”, Stark said indifferently.

He didn't follow them at once when Mortensen lead the way into the building. Neither he or Miss Potts had spared Bran a single glance.

“Fucking weird”, Stark murmured, looking at Bran briefly before they followed the others.

Apparently, the rooms Mortensen had mentioned were located in the basement of the building, much to Bran's discontent. He absolutely despised being in a room without windows and natural light, but he had no other choice than ignore his trepidation.

“You've gotten my list, right?”, Stark asked on the way, looking at Mortensen.

“Yes, our team consists only of the people you have chosen. Excellent scientists.” The Dane sounded proud, as if he had assembled the team himself. “I am afraid their English isn't so good, but I can translate, of course.”

“That won't be necessary”, Miss Potts said, “We have -”

She stopped suddenly, looking over her shoulder to where Bran was walking. He quirked an eyebrow at her and smiled, and she looked even more confused. Apparently she had just noticed that she hadn't thought about Bran since breakfast.

“Our own interpreter”, Stark jumped in when his CEO didn't finish her sentence. He gestured over to Bran. “Mr. Himinson, you remember?”

“Oh, yes”, Mortensen said, “of course.”

He managed to hide his bafflement quite well, Bran had to give him that. Stark looked at him, and Bran reacted to his eye roll with a faint smirk.

How interesting that Stark had _chosen_ the scientists they were to meet – and what a coincidence that they weren't capable of the English language.

Very interesting indeed.

Mortensen led them to a conference room where about half a dozen people already sat at a large table. They were engrossed in a conversation, talking in fast Swedish. They fell silent when they walked in.

Mortensen began talking in Swedish, but he had only said a few words when Stark interrupted him.

“I'd rather do the introductions myself, thanks”, he said, suddenly sounding disgruntled again. “But let's sit down for this, eh?”

So that's what they did, and what followed was half an hour of introductions. It was rather boring, but Bran took care to give attention. It seemed that the scientists were all Scandinavians, and their English was brittle at best. They had obviously understood when Bran and the Americans had introduced themselves, and they also spoke their few sentences about them and their work in English, but Bran doubted that using that language would work in the long run. But well, that was what he was here for, after all. It still struck him as strange, somehow.

It didn't take long until Stark got bored. Bran was sitting on his left side, and he could watch the inventor's fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the table. Stark took the first chance he got to really begin the meeting, but before he got to business he looked over to Bran with a smirk.

“You ready?”

“Of course”, Bran replied, smiling politely.

“Good”, Stark said, turning to the scientists in the room. “So, I hope you all know what you've gotten yourself into. Because this won't be fun.”

Mortensen frowned and Miss Potts sighed, but Bran had to suppress a grin as he told the attendants of Stark's delight to have them all assembled. Judging by their sort of relieved looks, they actually believed him. And Mortensen's confusion got replaced by relief, too, as Bran proceeded translating Stark's explanations into Swedish – all the while turning repellent statements and mild threats into more diplomatic propositions.

Stark noticed as well, of course. He could probably tell by his team's expressions that Bran didn't translate his speech word for word. Now and than, Stark shot him looks that positively screamed “I know what you're doing”, but he didn't complain. In the end, it almost seemed as if Stark was having fun.

Despite the changes he made, Bran made sure that it was clear that Stark was the one in charge, that nobody was allowed to do anything regarding his inventions without his explicit permission. No experiments he didn't know of, no touching of his things, no getting on his nerves. And of course they weren't allowed to tell anyone what they were doing, and such an information leak would lead to their firing. Stark didn't let much information about his creation slip, though, and Bran kept his translation just as vague and teasing as Stark obviously wanted it to be. By the end of their little initiation every scientist – and Bran himself as well – in the room _needed_ to know more about it.

And they probably all thought themselves lucky to have gotten a place in this team, lead by the oh so appreciative Tony Stark. And surely they would gain a lot of acknowledgment (and money, perhaps?) on the way. And of course the chance to get their hands and minds on a scientific revelation that was already designed to take the whole society one big step forward.

It was nothing more than a prank. Oh, and how Bran enjoyed toying with words to make other people believe things that weren't true. And he could tell that Stark was pleased as well – after all he didn't need to act like he actually wanted this collaboration with CSN to happen, since Bran took care that it seemed like Stark did.

Why Stark trusted him to do that job remained a mystery, however. It didn't quite fit in the overall picture. But well, for now Bran decided to let it be, because just now he couldn't do anything about it, anyway. He would figure it out in the coming weeks. And if every part of his work would be as fascinating as this was, he might actually enjoy it. Because, as it had turned out, Stark's wit and appreciation of pranks, even if they were subtle, matched Bran's own.

It was still rather clear that if this show was going to be staged at all, it was going to be Stark's, and his alone. But well, Bran was practically his voice, and he doubtlessly had his own small collection of strings he could pull on.

And yes, he was going to use them well.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr :)](https://amidnight--dreary.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for your comments! And subscriptions! And kudos! All of that! xD Reading your theories makes me incredibly happy.

Two hours had passed, and they were still sitting in that windowless meeting room.

Still discussing the work plan they would be following the next weeks.

Granted, it wasn't a real discussion. Stark was the one to set the rules, and the others had no other choice but to obey if they wanted to keep their job. Now and then Mortensen chimed in, asking questions or telling his own thoughts on how they should handle something. Stark always listened to him, or at least he pretended to, before he put him off. Bran was actually surprised that Stark had given real thought to this. He hadn't really expected Stark to give such detailed instructions, given the fact that the billionaire seemed absolutely unwilling to work with the other scientists at all. And maybe that was the reason Stark wasn't just improvising – he obviously didn't like having to share his work with other people like this, and therefore he felt the need to make sure that everything went exactly as he wanted. And really, his instructions were quite reasonable, aside from the fact that his possessiveness of his inventions bordered on paranoia.

It didn't take long until the other scientists picked that up as well, even though Bran softened Stark's statements in his translations. It was a woman – middle aged, with observant eyes that were enlarged by the thick glasses she was wearing – who raised her hand at some point and dared to comment on that.

Stark stopped when he noticed her, prompting her to speak with a “Yeah?” that didn't sound that inviting. He then gestured over to Bran, and while the woman spoke Bran tried to remember her name. Viklund? Eklund? He was quite sure her first name was Ester, though.

When she had finished, Bran smiled at her and turned to Stark. “She wants to know whether you intend to inform them about the reason they're here”, he told him, “or if they have to figure it out on their own.”

“They should already know why they're here”, Stark replied. He sounded tired.

“But they don't know any details about your invention, apparently.” Bran took care to keep his own curiosity out of his voice.

“Tony, you'll have to show them anyway”, Miss Potts said from Stark's right side, her voice soft.

“You could do a presentation”, Mortensen suggested. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Stark glared at him, and for a moment Bran thought he would refuse to show his team anything at all. But then Stark looked over to him, and when Bran quirked an eyebrow the inventor sighed and nodded.

Bran turned again to the female scientist who was of course still waiting for an answer. She seemed somewhat appeased when he told them that Stark would present his creation to them the next day because he disliked keeping it just theoretical, like he would have to if he told them now. The rest of the team nodded along his explanation as though they could understand that perfectly.

And well, so it went on. There were a few things left that had to be discussed, and it didn't take much longer until Bran got somewhat restless. Thank gods they wouldn't have such endless meetings everyday. He hoped that the work in the labs would be a little bit more varying. Being Stark's voice didn't stop being interesting, though, even if Bran didn't really learn anything new or useful about the man or his work. Hopefully the presentation Stark obviously didn't want to do would give something more away.

It was early afternoon when they were finally given a break. Bran contemplated staying with Stark and Miss Potts, but quickly decided against it and took the first chance to excuse himself. Miss Potts had already started reprimanding Stark and urging him to be a _little bit_ more cooperative, and Bran lacked the nerves to spend his break listening to that. He was sick of being stuck in the basement. Stark's gaze followed him when he slipped out of the room, but thankfully he didn't say anything. Bran didn't really feel like having another unsettling conversation with him. No, the one hour break they'd been granted could be used much better.

It wasn't as if he had anything more in mind then fresh air and a bit of sunshine, but anyway.

Next to the building was a small spot of green – nothing more than a few square meters of grass and some bushes, but at least there was a bench he could sit on. He would have preferred a more hidden spot where no one would bother him, but he probably wouldn't be noticed this way either. And so he sat down and closed his eyes for a while, trying to quieten his thoughts instead of brooding over, well, everything.

It worked surprisingly well, probably because of the fact that he was goddamn exhausted. He wasn't used to being around people for such a long time, let alone around people that really looked at him now and then. He had no problem with attention – gods, he was _longing_ for it, however pathetic that was – but still, it would take some time getting adjusted to it. He wondered if the scientists would have forgotten him already the next time they saw him. It was likely, even though they had practically hung on his every word for a few hours today. Introducing himself again and again and again wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, so he hoped he wouldn't have to do that too often. Gladly his name wouldn't be of much interest anyway, and as long as he reminded everybody of his presence by translating Stark's or Miss Potts' words he should be fine.

“Hey, Sky Walker.”

Bran opened his eyes to shoot the owner of the voice an annoyed glare. Of course, Stark wasn't impressed, standing in front of the bench and grinning down on Bran as if he was proud to be the embodiment of cumbersomeness. Well, he probably was. Bran sighed and made a point of closing his eyes again, even though that felt somewhat uncomfortable in Stark's presence. But he _was_ here to enjoy what little of the sun one could get in April in Sweden, and maybe Stark would run off again after being ignored for a while.

He had no such luck, of course.

“What are you doing, meditating?”

“Did you follow me here?”, Bran asked back, sounding as bored as he could.

“Yup”, Stark confirmed. “I brought lunch. Turkey or cheese?”

That caused Bran to blink his eyes open in surprise and stare at the other man. “What?”

Stark had the nerves to chuckle as he sat down on the bench next to Bran. He pulled something out of a small bag Bran hadn't noticed before, and then he was holding up two wrapped sandwiches.

“Do you want turkey or cheese?”, he repeated.

Just how insane was this man?

Bran's eyes flickered from the sandwiches back to Stark's face, searching for a sign that the other man was mocking him. The engineer couldn't possibly be serious about having lunch with him. Bran doubted that he had already forgotten how awkward breakfast had been, and Bran wasn't sure whether the fact that they were alone now would make a shared meal better or worse.

But, given the fact that Stark was still staring at him quizzically, he _was_ serious.

“Why?”, Bran asked eventually, because really, there had to be some reason for this other than bizarre camaraderie.

“I'm hungry”, Stark said, “and you haven't eaten much more at breakfast than I have.”

“Are you always this concerned about your employees' wellbeing?”

“No”, Stark said, and his eyes sparkled with something that was obviously a challenge. “Maybe you're just special.”

Bran hummed, still eyeing the other man cautiously. “And maybe Miss Potts was worried again and sent you to pester me.”

Stark's grin widened even more. “Believe me, she has _excellent_ taste in sandwiches”, which was probably a yes, “so, turkey or cheese?”

After another moment of hesitation, Bran gave in and took one of the sandwiches, not really caring which one. Stark looked annoyingly smug, which Bran decided to ignore while they unwrapped their lunch. All the while he was wondering how he had come from utter, aching solitude to _this_ in the span of two days. He almost wished to go back to that seclusion, and maybe he would have – just packed his things and vanished – if he hadn't been sure that there was more to Stark's behaviour than the inventor was allowing him to see. And Bran had to admit that Stark himself was _fascinating;_ even though Bran couldn't say whether it was because of his apparent intelligence or merely the mischief in his eyes.

“You're good at your job”, Stark remarked suddenly, his tone rather lighthearted and casual.

“Of course I am.”

Stark glanced at him, his lips curling upward in an amused smirk. “I know what you're doing, though.”

“Oh? Why, pray tell.”

“You're trying to wrap them around your finger”, Stark answered, nodding over to the building that contained their work rooms while taking another bite of his sandwich. He didn't sound particularly annoyed, and the accusation was more mocking than anything else.

“Actually, I was trying to wrap them around _your_ finger”, Bran corrected, willing to play along. “But your attitude makes that quite difficult.”

Stark snorted. “Wouldn't want to make this too easy for you, right?”

“Well, I could always just cease to _improve_ your words”, Bran replied courtly. “ _I_ would not be the one who would have to bear the consequences, after all.”

Bran knew exactly how the earlier meeting would have went if he hadn't made amendments in his translations – the scientists would have been all but horrified and Miss Potts even angrier than she was now.

“Why are you doing it, then?”, Stark asked. “You're basically helping me here.”

Bran shot him a cold look, but found himself unable to hold Stark's suddenly mindful gaze. “I am good at my job”, he stated again, keeping his voice flat.

“You just enjoy fooling them.”

“You enjoy letting me fool them.”

“Yeah”, Stark admitted without hesitation, “it's fun.”

Bran smirked, feeling mild satisfaction even though he had already known what Stark had just confessed, but he retreated to just eating his sandwich for a while. He had to admit that it was quite good, and that he _had_ been hungry.

“We can't keep that up, though.”

Bran looked at Stark, mildly surprised. “No?”

Stark averted his eyes and shrugged. “They can ran off for all I care. It's not like I want to work with them.”

“That was quite obvious”, Bran agreed. He watched the other man, how he sat there and only nibbled at his sandwich as if he had lied about being hungry. It didn't take long until something clicked.

“Have I interfered with a plan of yours?”, he asked, causing Stark to look at him again. “Do you want to scare them away?”

“I want them to keep their hands off my work”, Stark stated simply.

There was a defensive note to his tone, something that could quickly turn into a dismissal. He probably wanted Bran to let the topic drop, but Bran wasn't inclined to give in that easily.

“But why are you here, then? You agreed to this collaboration, did you not?”

“Had to.”

“Why?”, Bran asked again after he had tried to read Stark's secretive expression without much success.

Stark returned his gaze for a moment before he sighed and lifted his shoulders. “You see, my invention could help a lot of people. Probably. But it's... I'm not sure, I just think it's too early.”

Slowly, understanding began to dawn. It seemed that Stark wasn't ready to share his work – or maybe his creation simply wasn't ready to be shown. It certainly sounded like he had created something powerful, which only managed to intensify Bran's curiosity.

“You could have waited”, he said. “Why not take some more time if you think it's too early?”

Stark hummed and nodded as if Bran had asked exactly the right question. But apart from that he stayed silent for a while, not looking at Bran. And Bran waited, wanting to get more information out of the other man and unsure if and how he could accomplish that. He was almost surprised when Stark spoke up again without more prompting.

“I had to leave New York”, the inventor said, looking at Bran with one of his unsettling smirks. “This was just... the chance to do it.”

Bran narrowed his eyes, unable to keep his expression blank. “Are you running away from something?”

“Like you? No.” Stark chuckled, suddenly grinning with teeth. “No, I'm pretty much chasing trouble here.”

Bran's frown deepened as he stared at the other man. Stark had just given him another hint; Bran could tell by that astute glint in the inventor's eyes. And obviously Stark was aware that Bran didn't understand, because he chuckled again, entirely satisfied with himself.

“Maybe we _can_ keep it up”, he said then, changing the subject. “The fooling them, I mean.”

Frustrated, Bran looked away and returned his attention to his sandwich. “Then you should act a little bit more like you want to be here”, he said, knowing that he sounded sulky.

“Yeah”, Stark agreed. “I think I can do that. And you just make them believe that they do really important work, okay?”

“Even though you won't let them do anything of significance”, Bran added, nodding.

“Exactly”, Stark said, grinning widely. “I think we'll work well together.”

Bran just rolled his eyes at the teasing tone and the only barely hidden surprise. For a while they just sat there, eating the rest of their lunch. Bran tried to process their conversation, still feeling like he didn't get the big picture. He didn't know why Stark had been in need to leave New York – it had sounded like he needed to do something here, something that didn't have anything to do with CSN. Some personal problems, perhaps, but then why was he acting as if Bran should already _know_? Maybe Bran was just imagining things, and Stark wasn't hinting at anything at all. But no, he _was_ behaving as if they shared some kind of joke Bran didn't know anything about. And well, Stark seemed like someone who enjoyed confusing other people. He still didn't trust Bran – his suspicion was clearly shown by the way he hesitated before answering now and then – but he obviously enjoyed _playing_. And although that was something they had in common Bran didn't like being the target of whatever prank Stark was pulling. Because it did seem like a prank, somehow.

Bran couldn't stop thinking about that, even when they eventually finished their break and returned to the building. The end of their conversation had almost been an agreement, and it seemed that they were now pulling a prank _together_. Well, Bran had to admit that that could be fun. He just needed some more information, and he wasn't entirely sure if the billionaire would allow that.

Bran glanced over to Stark who had been uncharacteristically silent on their way back to the building. They were now standing in front of the elevators, and Bran felt trapped already when he thought of returning to those windowless rooms. He didn't look at Stark when he spoke up.

“You are aware that you have to inform me about your work, yes?”

Stark hummed. “You want to know more about the reactor.”

Now Bran did look at the other man, barely registering the _ping_ that announced the arrival of the elevator. “The reactor?”

Stark nodded as he pushed one of the buttons inside of the elevator, making the doors close in front of them. “My invention, basically. Arc reactors.”

“You said you created a new element.”

“That powers them”, Stark explained, followed by a shrug. “Well, not all of them, but anyway.” He glanced at Bran, smirking. “You said you did some research, back in New York.”

“I did.”

Bran tried to remember reading anything about arc reactors, and something was flickering in the back of his mind and trying to get his attention, but he couldn't grasp it. There was _something_ , he knew there was, but it was blurry and vague. He didn't try probing into it for very long, fearing that it would just result in another panic attack.

“The arc reactor is a source of clean energy”, Stark said a little bit too lightly, and Bran knew that he had noticed Bran's confusion. “The initial design is my father's, but I improved it. I've developed a few variants by now. My tower in New York is powered by a big one.”

“But they aren't yet... generally accessible?”, Bran asked as they walked the corridor that lead to the meeting room from earlier.

“No, so far they're only used by me.”

“They could be a big advancement of alternate energy”, Bran mused. “If you would grant others the chance to use them.”

“Yup.”

“Is that what this is for? To clear the way for your reactors, so they can be used generally as well?”

Stark shrugged. “I've got a few requests during the time I've been using them, but well. Turns out they need to be tested and studied by some team of wanna-be scientists before they can go big. And apparently you can't just create a new element without having people drooling over it.”

“I see”, Bran said slowly.

“Any more questions?”

Bran hesitated, frowning at the other man. “Would you answer them?”

“Depends on the question, I guess”, Stark said, “but yeah. I'd rather explain things to you myself than have you snooping.”

Bran blinked. “I don't snoop.”

Stark just snorted, giving Bran a look that told him that the billionaire wasn't buying any of Bran's feigned innocence.

Mortensen greeted them in front of the meeting room, with Miss Potts waiting with him already as well. He wanted to show Stark the labs they would work in during the next weeks, so they had to endure another tour led by the Dane. It wasn't as boring as the one before, though, because the labs were actually quite interesting. Also Bran had by far enough things to think about, and Stark kept communicating with him through glances and smirks and eye rolls, so he didn't get bored. Now and then he saw Stark jerk and then frown, his eyes searching for Bran – and every time Bran wondered if Stark had just _forgotten_ him, like Miss Potts and Mortensen had again. He didn't know how or why Stark managed to remind himself of Bran's presence again and again, but it was strangely fascinating to watch.

After the tour through the labs, they were done for the day. Bran retreated to his room for a while, only forcing himself out again for dinner. He sat alone in one corner of the dining area, and even though Stark waved at him when he entered the room with Miss Potts and Hogan, they didn't invite him to eat with them again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

A week later, Bran awoke bathed in cold sweat. It was two am, and he had dreamed of the color blue.

He hated the color blue.

The first thing he did was turn on the light and stare at his arms for a second. Then, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, he tried to regulate his breaths and get rid of the pictures the dream had left him with. It was probably his weirdest nightmare; absurd enough that it would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so damn horrifying. He still could still feel it; the cold blue swirling beneath his skin and taking even the slightest memory of warmth from him.

Bran was freezing. He always was, after that particular nightmare. Usually, he preferred low temperatures to high ones, but after this dream he could never get warm _enough._ And so he took his blanket with him and kept it wrapped around his body as he shuffled into the bathroom, still shivering. He left both the blanket and his clothes on the bathroom tiles and scurried into the shower, his hand blindly searching for the tap. He made the water as hot as possible and let out a sharp hiss when his skin started to burn all over.

Better.

For a while he just stood there and let the water pour down on him. He couldn't stop rubbing his arms, as if he still needed to chase away the blue. More than once he opened his eyes to stare at his hands, which were, of course, as white as always. His breaths still came in erratic hitches, and it didn't take long until he had no more energy to keep standing. He didn't even try to fight it when his legs gave in, and so he ended up sitting on the floor of the shower. Leaning against the wall, he reached up and turned the water just a little bit colder. He knew that meant he would be freezing again, but he still wasn't in the mood for any third-degree burns.

Bran knew he should get up and back into bed. He would regret in the morning if he didn't. But he doubted that he'd be able to fall asleep anytime soon, anyway, and so he just stayed were he was and tried to pull himself together.

Surprisingly, this had been the first nightmare he had had since arriving in Sweden. He had expected having some every night, but apparently _not sleeping at all_ was a rather good method to avoid bad dreams. Since he spent the better part of his free time pondering and scheming, he only got a few hours sleep every night if he was lucky, and then he usually dreamed either nothing or vague images that weren't unsettling enough to result in one of his panic attacks.

Bran didn't know how much time had passed, but eventually his hurting limbs made him scramble to his feet. He proceeded to shower properly, his head finally becoming clear again.

The last week had been surprisingly... pleasant. Absolutely exhausting, but not as bad as he had anticipated. They had even been working the entire weekend, and their work was actually interesting. Stark had done the presentation he had promised, managing to impress his whole team – including Bran – and being oddly annoyed by that. His creations were... astonishing.

A bit of trouble had occurred when Stark had refused showing the element he had synthesized to the team, though. He had insisted that he _couldn't_ , and Bran had been entirely sure that it had been more a case of unwillingness. However, he had managed to persuade the scientists of Stark's honesty. JARVIS had helped with that, with the shockingly realistic projections he was able to screen.

Apart from that, everything regarding their work had worked quite perfectly so far. Bran honestly enjoyed this job – it wasn't just dull translating and his scope was far bigger than he had expected. Every question Bran had had about Stark's work had been answered; not always without hesitation or suspicion, but what did that matter? Bran wasn't left in the dark about what they were doing, and he even had the power to make decisions or give instructions of his own as long as he moved within the limits Stark had set. He wasn't just translating, he was _assisting_.

They were basically, actually a _team_ at this point.

And Stark himself? Well _,_ he was interesting, to say the least. His intellect was impressive, maybe even able to keep up with Bran's, and by now Bran believed that he was completely deserving of the label _genius._ He also took a great delight in all kinds of mischief, which was surely something Bran could appreciate. They had that in common, after all. Stark enjoyed fooling the other scientists immensely, and he wasn't exactly reserved when it came to praising Bran for his ideas. Their work days were filled with overall small shenanigans that stayed mostly verbal, and it wasn't uncommon that they shared one or two satisfied smirks or appreciative glances when none of the others would see. By now, every single scientist of their team, including Mortensen, was ridiculously convinced that Stark had given them the most contributing, most relevant task. Of course they _were_ doing things of importance, at least now and then, but in the end it wouldn't matter. They were only doing what Stark or Bran allowed them to do, and never more. And they still believed they could _move_ something, as if Stark would ever give them the chance to get their hands on something he didn't want them to even _look at._

It was rather entertaining, all of it.

But it wasn't the fact that they were creating that illusion together which struck Bran as the most wondrous thing, but how Stark hadn't stopped _seeing_ him all week. He seemed to be always aware of Bran's presence, even if he needed to remind himself of it now and then. Bran doubted that had any other reason than suspicion – because Stark hadn't stopped being wary of Bran, not for one single second. He also hadn't stopped dropping hints that hadn't yet achieved more than making Bran confused and frustrated.

And that was what made working for Stark – working _with_ him – so exhausting. Bran didn't do well with being watched, being _controlled._ But clearly that was what Stark was doing. Being constantly watched by JARVIS was annoying enough; because even though Bran had searched his room for cameras or any other signs that the AI had access to it and hadn't found anything, JARVIS still seemed to be everywhere else. He wouldn't be surprised if he kept his creator informed about Bran's whereabouts. Stark always kept an eye on Bran while they worked, and he kept looking at him as if he was expecting some kind of misstep. Bran could understand that to some extent, since he could practically tell the other scientists whatever he wanted and Stark hadn't always the means to control that. But Bran also assumed that JARVIS was able to decipher his Swedish, so Stark _would_ be informed should Bran blunder. It also wasn't just about work and Stark's weird protectiveness of his creations, it _couldn't_ be.

Because the billionaire also hadn't stopped showing up for lunch. It didn't matter where Bran went, where he hid to avoid disturbance, Stark would always find him sooner or later. And then he'd give Bran a sandwich or whatever it was that he had brought, and begin a conversation. Bran had no other choice than give in and play along, because if he wanted Stark to tell him _anything,_ constantly dismissing him wasn't really something he could do. And so they spent all their breaks together, which led to a lot of frustration on Bran's part. He had to admit that Stark wasn't actually bad company – he was witty, mischievous and challenging; and Bran couldn't get around of enjoying to be finally _seen_ again. But still, he could only endure being alone with the other man for so long before his confusing hints and the constant suspicion made him weary. More often than not the conversations with Stark threw Bran off track, and he had found himself on the brink of another panic attack more than once. Strangely enough, Stark always seemed to notice and backed away, carefully broaching another topic.

Bran didn't know why Stark was doing it, this... socializing. The only reason Brad could think of was curiosity, because he didn't feel like it was all about suspicion. Norns, Stark had admitted that he was curious and it hadn't seemed like a subterfuge. It was his answer every time Bran had reacted to one of his questions with a “Why?”. _I'm curious_ , Stark had said, and he hadn't stopped asking about Bran's favorite books (“Anything else than Tolkien?”) or movies he liked (“Do you even _know_ movies?”) and too many other things that technically were _none of his business._

Bran wouldn't be surprised if Stark kept a notebook somewhere which he used to keep track of every single answer Bran had given him. Because he _had_ given him answers. And asked some of his own questions.

(Stark liked Tolkien as well, and he was also fond of Terry Pratchett. And Star Trek, which had led to a small discussion because Bran had never heard of or seen it and didn't have any intents of changing that.)

But he hadn't learned anything of importance. Of course, he knew about Stark's work, but that didn't help him to figure out what the inventor was hiding from him. And Bran was sure that there was something – Stark still acted now and then as if they knew each other and he kept making these insinuations Bran didn't understand. A few times Bran had tried to probe into it, but Stark had always blocked those attempts with a shake of his head and an irritating chuckle.

But Bran was patient. It was one of his few virtues, probably. He could and would persevere and wait for the moment Stark made a mistake, and until then he would... _not_ enjoy Stark's company for the sake of it, no. Endure it, at most.

Bran sighed when he stepped out of the shower, hurrying to get into clean and warm clothes again. His own rambling thoughts were frustrating him, and they were what usually kept him up all night. He was always trying to come up with a way to lure Stark being a bit more trusting and talkative – not that the billionaire wasn't talking enough already, but Bran needed him to talk about more helpful things. However he was to achieve that was beyond Bran's knowledge.

Bran was already on his way back to bed, the blanket wrapped around him again, when a strange noise made him stop. It was a _thump_ coming from the door to his room; not a knock, more as if someone had just let himself fall against it. Bran almost flinched when something – or, obviously, someone – rattled at the door. Frowning, he threw the blanket on the bed and tiptoed to the door, which sadly lacked peephole. There was a hiss coming from the other side, suddenly, followed by a short but impressive tirade of cursing.

Bran's tension resolved into annoyance, and for a while he stayed where he was and listened to the low swearing and grumbling, hoping it would just cease eventually. When it didn't, he straightened his back and cleared his face of any feelings it might display, and opened the door.

Even though he had known who it was, he hadn't been prepared for a very moody and very drunk Anthony Stark to practically fall against him. While Stark let out a sound of surprise that vaguely resembled a squeak, Bran pushed the other man away again as quickly as possible. The inventor was tumbling a little, though, and because Bran didn't want him to pass out in the entryway to his room, he kept his hands on Stark's shoulders to steady him.

“Stark?”

His voice was hoarse, and he was painfully aware that he had been crying in his shower half an hour ago, crying because of a bad dream like a child. Thankfully Stark didn't seem able to notice very much, too busy staring at Bran in mild shock. His gaze was unfocused and his cheeks were flushed, making Bran wonder just how much alcohol was in Stark's system. Bran was used to Stark looking bad – the man didn't seem to be familiar with the concept of sleep, even less than Bran, and he always looked as if he was either recovering from a nightmare or preparing himself for one. Bran was also sure that this wasn't the first time he saw Stark drunk, judging by the faintest whiff of alcohol he had smelled a few times. But now, Stark looked positively wrecked, reeking of alcohol as if he had downed an entire liquor store.

“Wrong door”, Stark said suddenly, more a question than an apology. He didn't slur that badly, but Bran also didn't believe him capable of forming long and coherent sentences.

“Yes”, Bran confirmed, slowly pulling his hands away. It seemed that Stark's legs were a bit too wobbly to keep him standing without help, because he quickly reached out for the door frame. “Try the next one, perhaps”, Bran added, not even trying to keep his disapproval out of his voice as he pointed down the hall.

For a second, Stark just gaped, his unsteady eyes flickering over Bran's figure, but then his mouth twisted into a poor and far too bitter imitation of his usual cocky grin.

“Sure thing, Princess”, he drawled, holding up the card with which he had apparently tried to unlock Bran's door. “Gonna go sleep.”

With that he pushed himself away from the door frame and staggered a few steps in the direction of his door. He had to steady himself with a hand on the wall.

“Can you make it?”, Bran asked, watching the other man doubtfully.

Stark only emitted a snort in response, but he managed to make his way towards his door. He positively slumped against it, needing a few attempts to get his card through the reader. The door didn't open. Stark cursed under his breath and tried again, and when the door stayed closed he just let his head fall against it with an audible thud. He just remained like that, and Bran watched from the entrance to his room.

“Stark?”, he asked into the silence.

“Fuck off.”

Bran raised his brows, but stayed where he was. Stark didn't move, breathing so heavily Bran could hear it clearly from where he was standing. For a moment, Bran contemplated just retreating to his room and leaving Stark to his own devices, but in the end he decided against it.

This could be just the mistake he had been waiting for.

After making sure the door to his own room would stay open, he approached Stark on his bare feet and stopped standing next to him.

“Fuck _off_ ”, Stark repeated, not looking at him. He was not a happy drunk, apparently.

“Would you give me the card?”, Bran requested.

“No.”

“But maybe I can -”

“ _No._ 'm fine.” He swiped the card through the reader once more, without any success. “See? Fine.”

Bran watched him, glancing between the card and Stark's face. The inventor's eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw was clenched, and his chest was still heaving with ragged breaths. Bran wondered if that was what he himself looked like when his dreads were about to take over.

“That is your credit card”, he informed the other man after some time, his voice unexpectedly soft even in his own ears. “You need your key card.”

Stark let out a frustrated hiss after he had blinked down at the card and realized Bran was right. He tried to straighten himself, but he faltered and would have lost his balance if Bran hadn't reached out for his shoulder again, supporting him.

“Hands off”, Stark all but sneered, shrugging Bran's touch off at once.

Bran complied. The inventor turned around and leaned against the door with another thud, dropping the credit card in the process. He tried to catch his breath and raised his hand to wipe his face; his forehead covered with a faint layer of sweat.

“Do you have your key card?”, Bran prompted after a few seconds.

“Dunno.” Stark huffed a breath, and there was that grin from earlier again. “No. Think I – maybe in the lab or – Fuck.”

“Stark?”

“Go 'way”, was all Stark managed before he closed his eyes again. The grin faded from his face.

He looked as if he was about to get seriously sick. Bran wanted to say something, but he stopped when Stark crumpled, sliding down along the door until he sat there in a position that couldn't possibly be comfortable.

Bran stood there for a moment, staring down at the other man and trying to decide what he should do. It didn't really seem like he could get any useful information out of Stark right now, and again he thought of just doing what Stark wanted and leaving him alone. He doubted that would make him rise in Stark's estimation, though, and he couldn't just let the man pass out in the corridor.

“What about Miss Potts?”, he asked in the end. “Where is she?”

Stark didn't reply, just pointed down the hallway, and that actually made Bran frown. He had expected Miss Potts would be in their suite, sleeping. Maybe they had had an argument and she had tossed Stark out? He looked in the direction Stark had pointed at, remembering the different doors on their floor. Then he blinked down at the slumped billionaire.

“She doesn't share your rooms?”, he asked, voicing his guess.

Stark just laughed; a wet, joyless thing that made him bump his head against the door.

Ah. Bran had always just assumed that Stark and Miss Potts were inhabiting the suite together, but apparently that was not the case. He had never once seen her entering either the suite or one of the other rooms on the floor, but he didn't see her that often anyway. Now, he didn't quite know what to do with that information – he remembered reading that Stark and his CEO were a couple, but he didn't recall reading that in past tense. He wondered how long it was over. But still, he knew that they were still fond of each other and that Miss Potts was constantly worried about Stark, that was impossible to miss.

“Do you want me to get her?”

Stark opened his eyes at that and glared up to Bran with a determination that was almost impressive regarding how drunk he seemed to be. “No. _No._ Nobody. Jus' go.”

Bran sighed. If Stark didn't want him to contact anyone, that didn't leave him with a lot of options. Bran briefly considered if JARVIS could help, but he doubted that the AI could unlock Stark's door. Besides, he didn't know how to bring him into this. He knew that the AI had access to Stark's phone, but the inventor seemed close to blacking out for real, and Bran didn't actually want to search him for it.

“Stark”, he said eventually, “can you stand up?”

Stark stared at him as if he had lost his mind and shook his head after a second. Then he closed his eyes again, making a shooing gesture with his hand that left Bran rather unimpressed.

“I will not leave you here, Stark. Get up.”

When the engineer didn't react, Bran crouched next to him without further ado and grabbed his arm to pull him on his feet. Stark was promptly protesting, his voice disturbingly brittle.

“He-ey, I said don't – hands off, you -”

Bran hushed him and propped the American against the door again. “You can stay here of course, if you want”, he said. “I am sure Miss Potts will be overly pleased when she leaves her room and sees you like this in the morning.”

Stark narrowed his eyes and made a face that could almost pass as a pout if he hadn't glared at Bran like he wanted his very slow and very painful death. He didn't say anything, though, just huffed and averted his eyes after a second.

“There is a sofa in my room”, Bran told him soothingly. “You can have it, and sleep off your intoxication.”

Stark took his time to consider it, but eventually his shoulders slumped a little more. “Fine”, he muttered, looking at Bran again with what should probably be a threatening expression. “Hands off.”

Bran took a step back and held up his hands, not even trying to hide his smirk. “Of course.”

Stark shot him a last pointed look before he made a few tumbling steps, only to stop and having to support himself on the wall again.

“Shit”, he muttered, blinking rapidly. He was probably trying to get his dizziness under control, and it didn't seem to be working well. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

Stark just grit his teeth and shook his head before he continued his stumbled way to Bran's room. Bran stayed close to him, ready to reach out and steady him should he fall. When they arrived in Bran's room and the door was closed behind them, Stark lurched in the direction of Bran's bed. Bran was quick to intervene.

“I said sofa, you fool, not bed”, he said, grabbing the hem of Stark's shirt.

The sound Stark made in reaction was close to a whine, but Bran just rolled his eyes and maneuvered the irksome man over to the small sofa. Stark let himself fall on it with a grunt. Bran suppressed a sigh and went to the bathroom, fetching a glass of water for the inventor. When he returned Stark had draped his arm over his face, but he squinted up to Bran and followed his movements. He was still in the dress shirt he had worn at work, but apparently he had lost his tie and jacket somewhere. The first buttons stood open, and Bran caught a glimpse of something he had seen a few times before – the circle in Stark's chest, glowing brightly enough to dip their faces in blue.

It hadn't been hard to figure out what that was. They spent their time studying arc reactors, after all, and that thing that seemed to be embedded in Stark's body looked just like a miniature version of them. Bran had done some research with the help of Google, but it seemed that the reason Stark had a arc reactor _in his chest_ was a well kept secret.

Bran knew that this could be a good chance to examine it further and his fingers itched with the urge to touch it, but the blue glow reminded him too much of his nightmare. And so he averted his eyes, finding himself unable to look at it any longer.

“Here”, he said instead, putting the glass on the low table next to the sofa. “Drink. Sleep. And be quiet, please.”

“Hair's wet”, Stark said in response, sounding strangely perplexed.

“Pardon?”

“Washed your hair.”

Bran blinked, wondering if the man had any idea what he was saying. “Yes?”

“Better”, Stark murmured, closing his eyes again. Bran could see one corner of his mouth twitch into a smirk. “Shorter, but better.”

Staring at the man, Bran felt a strange rush of excitement running through him. “Shorter?”, he pressed. “Shorter than when?”

Stark opened his eyes only to narrow them at Bran. “Uh uh. 'm not that drunk.”

Bran frowned, but he let it drop and turned away. “Drink”, he repeated firmly, and to his surprise Stark obeyed, even though he did so with a groan.

Bran turned off the light and got into bed, knowing already that he wouldn't close an eye. He listened to Stark's still labored breaths for a while, trying to ignore the light that came from the reactor in the inventor's chest. He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost winced when Stark spoke up again.

“Where's my credit card?”

Ah, yes. He had almost forgotten. “I will give it back to you tomorrow.”

There was a beat of silence. “You stole it?”, Stark asked then.

“You dropped it”, Bran corrected. “I merely picked it up.”

What followed was a laugh, stifled but more sincere than the one in the hallway, and then a muffled “fuck” because Stark was obviously still in pain. Bran thought that it would have been wiser to deposit him in the bathroom near the toilet, but he really had more important things to consider.

“Stark?”, he asked into the silence.

“Hmm?”, came the drowsy reply.

“How long was my hair?”

Another hum, and then: “Shoulders.”

Bran stared at the ceiling, barely able to breathe. He didn't remember _ever_ having shoulder length hair. But he remembered so little and so vaguely, and why should Stark be lying? He was drunk, he wasn't on guard, and he knew Bran with longer hair. The realization hit him hard, settling down heavily in his chest, and it was the first feeling, the first thought he had ever had that didn't feel wrong.

_They had met before._

 


	8. Chapter 8

The light of the device in Stark's chest was too bright in the darkness of the room, even though it wasn't really more than a faint cold glow. Bran couldn't even see it when he closed his eyes, but since they stayed open for the entire night he had to deal with that luminescence for hours on end. He had tried asking a few more questions, right after Stark's probably accidental exposure, but the infuriating man had already been sleeping. And Bran had had nothing left except his stuttering heartbeat and tumbling thoughts. He felt as if he didn't know anything.

Except that he did. He knew  _so much_ , suddenly, and so little all the same. Because he didn't know how to grasp the knowledge he had gained. That single word out of Stark's mouth had left him dizzy, and even now, hours after hearing it, he was still struggling for air. He knew that it was true, though – yes, he had spent some time doubting it, right after the first wave of certainty had passed. But now, he had thought about it for hours, and not one single argument his mind so helpfully supplied could change his mind. He was aware that it was ridiculous, that he should just laugh it off and blame everything Stark had said on alcohol, but no. They had met before. That sentence was a fact now. He had no idea when or how, or why he didn't remember it – and he had  _tried_ to remember, but it had just earned him a headache and a blinding rush of panic – but it... It  _tasted_ like truth. He couldn't even say why, it just did. And that new awareness confused him, because he didn't quite know what to do with it. He couldn't make sense of something that was completely senseless.

Not yet.

He had to wait until morning. And he wasn't sure yet how he would approach it, but he would talk to Stark. Maybe the inventor wouldn't even remember what he had said, which could play into Bran's hands. He needed to lure more information out of the man, and that would probably be easier when Stark wasn't aware that he'd already slipped once. And if he  _did_ remember... Oh, Bran was curious what the other man would do next.

It was a knock at his door that pulled him out of his thoughts at five am. Lifting his head to take a look at Stark, he saw that the engineer was still sleeping on the sofa. Before Bran could even get out of bed, there was another knock, more urgent this time. Bran scowled to himself as he stood up and made his way to the door, opening it.

Was he surprised to see Miss Potts standing there? No, not really. Was he annoyed, though? Yes, very.

“Good morning”, he said, sounding confused. He still made the effort and smiled kindly at her. “Is something wrong?”

Miss Potts looked deeply worried, but his eyes were cold. “What did you do?”, she asked, voice firm.

He raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

She huffed and tried to glance past him. He leaned against the door frame, coincidentally blocking her sight of the sofa. Her expression darkened even more. “Stop that. Just –  _stop,_ okay? Where is he?”

“Who?”, he replied, smile still in place.

“You know exactly who I mean. Is he alright? I swear to god, if he isn't -”

“Then what?”, he said when she broke herself off. She didn't answer, just stared at him.

Cocking his head to one side, his eyes flickered over her face. She was afraid, he could tell, even though he didn't really know why. He knew she didn't trust him, but actually believing he had hurt Stark or would hurt her seemed a bit inordinate. He had a few mean words already sitting on his tongue, and he wanted to use them just to tease her a little more, but in the end that wouldn't do him any good.

And so he sighed and straightened himself again. “Mr. Stark is perfectly fine, I assure you. Aside from the hangover he will certainly have when he wakes up, at least.”

Miss Potts let out a relieved little breath, but she still looked at him as if she didn't believe him. “He isn't in his room.”

“I know”, he said. “He spent the night in mine.” He had to suppress a snicker when her face fell for a second. Norns, he didn't even want to know what images had turned up in her mind. “On my sofa, Miss Potts”, he clarified, allowing himself a grin.

The redhead glared at him, and then she pushed past him into his room. He let her and watched as she came to a halt in front of the sofa, staring at the still sleeping and snoring man lying there. Miss Potts looked actually surprised.

“What happened?”, she asked, looking at Bran again who met her gaze with now cold eyes. His smile had faded as well.

“He appeared at my door in the middle of the night”, he answered. “Completely drunk. He had lost the key card for his suite, so I offered him to sleep here.”

“You should've brought him to me”, Miss Potts said, apparently still angry with him because of reasons Bran didn't really understand.

“Oh, believe me”, he said, his own irritation coloring his voice now, “I wanted to. But he asked me not to. It seemed he didn't want you there, so I indulged him.”

“He was drunk!”

“Well, yes. And quite stubborn, too.”

“You still shouldn't have taken him.”

“I was merely trying to help”, Bran said slowly, pointedly. His nails were digging into his palm where his fingers were clenched into a fist.

“Because you're  _such_ a helpful man”, Miss Potts said, no,  _spat_  at him. “You weren't  _helping_ , you were -”

But she stopped mid sentence, pressing her lips into a thin line, and only proceeded to look at him as if there were a thousand words she would very much like to hurl at him. Bran stared at her, trying to stay calm, and not for the first time he had to fight the urge to ask what he had ever done to deserve a treatment like this. And it was only now – admittedly very late – that Bran realized that Miss Potts  _knew_ as well. All her mistrust, her loathing for him, it was all because she knew him, too. And that encounter with Stark Bran didn't remember had to be the reason for her behaviour.

Which sparked the very unsettling feeling that he  _had_ done something to deserve a treatment like this.

The thought made him feel nauseous, and his vision blurred, and he wanted to lash out at her just as much as he wanted to flee. But he did neither, holding onto the very last bit of control he had.

“Very well”, he said, voice flat. “I shall just leave him on the corridor next time, then.”

She still just looked at him, a hint of confusion in her eyes, and he stared back. She was the first to give in, averting her eyes after a while to look back at Stark who had just slept through the whole ordeal. And Bran couldn't stand looking at either of them anymore, he couldn't stand being  _there_ anymore, and so he just turned his back and left the room, the bathroom door slamming shut behind him.

He  _hid_ , which was pathetic, but he couldn't help it. He sat down on the toilet lid, cursing himself when his breath hitched, and closed his eyes in an attempt to shut everything and everyone out. His hands were rubbing against his pants, fiddling around with the cotton.

Bran couldn't even say exactly what was wrong, he just couldn't think of single thing that  _wasn't_. He didn't know what was going on; only that he was exhausted and confused and unable to keep up with his reeling thoughts. Sometimes he felt as if his mind worked too fast, as if it picked up things too quickly for him to grasp them, and it noticed and saw and understoodall the little things Bran couldn't even begin to make sense of. Something in him wavered,  _hummed_ , making his chest go tight as if it wanted to break out of it. It was a strange feeling, that one, but not necessarily bad. Only overwhelming, and right now it didn't do anything to soothe him.

It took a while until he calmed down. He could here muffled whispers coming from the other side of the door, and grumbling of a very annoyed Stark who was only hushed by Miss Potts. He ignored all of it, and he only left the bathroom when he was sure to be alone.

He was.

Bran spent the rest of the morning in a daze. His thoughts kept circling around Stark and what he had given away, but he couldn't understand what it meant. He rifled through all his memories, because they  _were_  his memories however blurry and wrong they seemed – they hadto be – but he only came to the conclusion that the first time he had met Stark had been at the job interview a month ago. He had certainly seen Stark before that since the man was on the news practically every day, but he didn't remember meeting him, let alone in a way that would justify Miss Potts' behaviour. And how could he be so sure of being right in his assumptions when nothing about it was  _rational_? Something about this was wrong, very wrong, but he simply couldn't sort it out.

He was too tired. He hadn't slept properly since days, and all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and just stop  _thinking_ for a while. It felt as if something in him was about to snap, and he was just weary of it. He was used to the feeling to not fit into his own skin, he felt like that practically all the time, but it had now reached an intensity that was... too much.

He was so close,  _so close_  to understanding something – understanding everything, he just knew that. But it was almost as if there was a blockade inside of him, a line he couldn't overstep. Doing that anyway resulted in blurry vision and panic, his blood rushing too loud in his ears and his heart beating so fast that he feared it would stop altogether.

He wouldn't be surprised if he would pass out at some point today.

He dragged himself to breakfast when it was time, but he didn't get anything down except tea, and even that settled down low and uncomfortably in his stomach. Neither Stark or his companions were anywhere to be seen, and seldom had he been as relieved that everyone else just ignored him as now. He didn't feel like working, because there he  _had_ to be seen. He enjoyed that, usually, but today his mind was too full of other things.

He was barely aware of his surroundings when he reached their labs after breakfast, but he felt a little more  _real_ knowing that Stark would be there. The inventor was the only fixed point now – because if there was one thing Bran was completely sure of, it was that Stark had all the answers Bran so desperately needed. And so he straightened himself and pretended to be a lot more confident than he felt, and looked out for Stark.

He was greeted politely by a few scientists on the way to the room he and Stark always met in in the mornings, his steps a little more lively now. He stopped dread in his tracks when he could take a first glimpse of the room behind glassy walls, because Stark wasn't there waiting for him.

It was Miss Potts who was sitting at their table, and Bran's first impulse was to turn around and leave again. But that wasn't something he could do – he couldn't make himself  _vulnerable_ in front of her, he couldn't let show how much he hated knowing less then she did. And so he entered the room and greeted Miss Potts coolly before he made his way to his usual place.

“Mr. Stark isn't available today”, Miss Potts said after she had returned his greeting, and it took a second of surprise when Bran realized that she sounded guilty.

“Oh?”, he replied, putting down his bag. “And what should I tell the team? I suppose the truth wouldn't be all too well received.”

“An important meeting in Uppsala?”, Miss Potts suggested. She stood up, undoubtedly because she was uncomfortable sitting while he was standing, tall as he was. “Something that requires the whole day. Not that Tony cares, but...”

“Of course”, he said incuriously. It wasn't as if  _he_ cared.

Miss Potts returned his gaze steadily, but it was obvious that she was uncomfortable. He was actually inclined to inclined to ignore her until she just left him alone. He pulled his laptop and notes out of his bag, fully aware that she was still watching him cautiously. “Is there anything else?”

She was worrying her lower lip now, but after a moment she cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes, I... I just wanted to say that I'm sorry”, she said then, “for my behaviour, earlier. I was rude.”

“You were”, Bran agreed. She was being sincere, he could tell. He wondered what Stark had told her that made her, well, probably not change her mind, but at least apologize to him.

The CEO smiled faintly, and he could see that it was forced. ”I really am sorry. And I'm glad that you were there to help. But I was worried, and Tony's just... He's got that habit to get himself into trouble.”

“Yes, I can imagine.”

There was another pause, and apparently Miss Potts was aware that he had little care for her apology, because she quickly changed the topic again. “He said you know the plans for today? Do you think you can direct the team on your own?”

Bran blinked, but otherwise didn't show his confusion. “Certainly. You won't stay?”

She shook her head slowly, eyeing him with something that wasn't only suspicion and scorn. “No”, she said, hesitating before she added, “Tony trusts you to... stick with his instructions.”

He put on a smile. “And you do not feel the need to supervise me, anyway? Why, I'm surprised.”

“Take it as a test.”

“Oh, I do.”

Miss Potts let out a faint huff, and Bran couldn't quite tell whether she was amused or annoyed. But at least she left him alone shortly after, and he found that his mood was even worse than before. He didn't look forward to a whole day of work – fooling the scientists was barely any fun when Stark wasn't there to appreciate Bran's hoaxes.

It was admittedly rather nice to be the only one giving the instructions, even though it struck him as strange that Stark would actually leave that to him. At least he could find some distraction in their work, even though his thoughts still kept wandering back to the last night. He wondered how long Stark would take to detoxicate. In the end the billionaire didn't show up the whole day, which meant that lunch break was actually quite boring. Bran was overly glad when he could retreat to his room in the evening, and he considered skipping dinner and just going straight to bed. He didn't remember ever feeling so drained. He forced himself to leave his room again, though, simply because he hoped to see Stark at dinner.

He just longed to see how Stark handled the last night.

Seeing no sign of the man in the dining area was disappointing, but Bran still stayed. He even got himself something to eat, because his nausea hadn't faded and he hoped food would ease it a little. He was completely lost in thoughts, poking around in his dinner, when another tray was set on his table with a clank.

Bran looked up and saw Stark, who shot him a glance in return as he let himself fall on the chair across from Bran. The inventor looked a little bit better than last night, but not that much. There were bags under his eyes and his movements were a little sluggish. Apparently Bran wasn't the only one who felt miserable.

“You don't look sober”, Bran stated, watching as Stark attacked his food as if he hadn't eaten since days. Which might be true.

“That's because I'm not, Sherlock”, Stark retorted with a smirk and shrugged. “But I'm sober enough.”

“For what?”

The inventor made a gesture that was probably meant to encompass the whole situation. “For this. How was work, honey?”

Bran rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, knowing that he wouldn't get another bite down. “Boring. Mortensen kept trying to play by his own rules.”

Stark snorted. “Sure he did. I hope you kept him in check.”

“I am sure you know that I did.”

“You think so?”

“Please”, Bran said, mirroring Stark's grin, “as if JARVIS wasn't watching my every step.”

“Busted.” Stark chuckled, and he continued speaking with his mouth full. “You were great. I had J translate what you said, now and then. It's so sad that nobody else appreciates your jokes, they're really missing out on something there.”

Bran lifted his shoulders. “I think they aren't very fond of me.”

“Nope. They think you're creepy.”

“A pity.”

“Totally.”

They didn't say anything for a while, a silence that was broken by Stark in the end. The man really couldn't stand being quiet for more than two minutes.

“So, is this like, the point where I thank you for letting me crash on your couch last night?” He gestured around between them with his fork. “Because that was actually nice of you.”

“You're quite welcome”, Bran told him kindly.

Stark huffed, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You were annoyed as hell.”

“Well, yes”, Bran said with a smirk of his own. “But I have to admit it was rather informative, in the end.”

“I'm sure it was”, Stark agreed, still grinning.

Was that how they were going to this? Well, Bran was thoroughly able to play this game, and maybe it would gain him more than a direct confrontation. He watched Stark eat for a moment before he spoke up again.

“Was there a reason you got so drunk, Mr. Stark?”

Stark scowled at him, threatening Bran with his knife this time. “Come on, we were over that already. Stop it with the  _Mr,_  okay?”

Bran quirked a brow. “I still refuse to call you Tony.”

“Just stick with Stark, then. That worked just fine last night, didn't it?”

“Ah”, Bran said, inclining his head. “You remember that?”

Another toothy grin. “I remember everything, Rock of Ages.”

Bran leaned forward again and crossed his arms on the table. “That is a new one, I think. I didn't know you were into musicals.”

Stark laughed at that. “God, I love that you're getting my references now. That's a total upgrade.”

“I didn't get them before?”

The inventor didn't stop smiling, but he also didn't answer the question. “I wonder just  _why_ you get them now”, he said instead, sounding thoughtful suddenly. “Did you have a lot of free time back in Norway?”

“Yes, quite.” Bran remembered reading every book, watching every movie he could find in his cabin, and there had been a lot. “You are changing the subject.”

“Yeah? What were we talking about again?”

Bran hummed pensively, circling the edge of his empty glass with his finger. He didn't avert his eyes from Stark's. “About the nicknames you have for me, I think.”

“Okay.” Stark returned his gaze, and Bran could tell by the look in his eyes that the inventor wasn't as relaxed as he pretended to be. “What do you know about Rock of Ages, then?”

“Not much. The men in it wouldn't happen to have longer hair, would they?”

“Yup”, Stark replied, even popping the last letter. He chuckled again. “And really ridiculous costumes.”

“Tell me more”, Bran said, and for a moment he thought that Stark actually would. The man looked at him as if he  _wanted_ to, almost, and Bran already felt excitement rushing through him. He was so close,  _so close_ -

“Not here”, Stark said, and his tone had lost its playfulness. “What are you doing after dinner? Like, usually?”

Bran blinked in surprise. “Why?”

Stark frowned a little. He pushed his tray away from him, apparently done with eating. “Do you know where my lab is?”

“Your private one?”

“Yes.”

Bran nodded slowly. “I know the way, yes.”

“I'll be there all evening”, Stark said, standing up. “Or all night, really.”

Bran found himself smiling. “Very well.”

“It's a date”, Stark said, but it didn't sound cheerful. He tapped on the table with his knuckles and a smirk, and then he walked away, with Bran looking after him as he left the room.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Finding Stark's personal laboratory was easy. It was located in same building they worked in every day, but gladly a few floors above theirs. Above the ground, even, which meant that they were _windows._ If Bran hadn't been distracted by much more disturbing thoughts, he'd have relished in the way the last sunlight of the day fell through the glass. He still wasn't used to being in the basement for the better part of his days, and he doubted that he would ever adjust to that. He had always felt the most comfortable in the open, had always hated cramped places and roofs or walls that kept him from looking at the sky. When he had still lived in Norway, those few months in his memory that felt _real_ , he had spent most of his time in the woods – and those had been very hard to leave behind.

He didn't think about that now, though. In fact, he could only think about Stark. Bran had been on edge since the inventor had left the dining area earlier, itching to ran after him at once and demand answers. Instead giving in to that urge he had forced himself to wait. He had gone back to his room and sat around on his bed for a while, his thoughts an absolute mess. He hadn't been able to sit still for very long, and so he had found himself on the way to Stark's lab earlier than he would've wanted. But there wasn't any use to pretend indifference or patience, anyway – Stark knew perfectly well that Bran was _aching_ for answers.

He felt slightly sick now, thinking that he might get some very soon. If Stark decided to enlighten him, at least. And that wasn't yet clear.

To find Stark, all Bran had to do was follow the sound of ear shattering music. Soon he could see the inventor through glassy walls. He was hunched over a table, apparently working on something Bran couldn't see from this angle. Bran tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths; he didn't intend to show Stark how shaky he felt. Glass doors slid open for him on their own accord – JARVIS, probably – and the music faded out as soon as he stepped into the room.

“One moment”, Stark said absently, not turning to look at him.

Knowing better than to disturb the engineer in his concentration, Bran took a look around the lab. It was a wide room, all glass and technical devices Bran couldn't even guess the function of. There was another door in one corner, but that wall sadly wasn't see-through, so maybe it hid something Bran wasn't meant to see. After a while of glancing around he decided that there wasn't much of interest, mostly because he simply didn't have the nerves to be interested in anything else than the reason he was here.

And so, he waited. It didn't take long, only a few minutes of Stark poking around at some very small device in utter silence. When he finally set it down and dropped his tool on the table, he immediately turned his chair around to look at Bran.

“Hi”, he said, grinning. “I'm surprised it took you so long. Needed some mental preparation?”

Bran just gave him an unimpressed look. “I'm as prepared as I can be, Stark.”

“Doubt it”, Stark countered. His smile faded as he studied Bran. “You look like a mess. When's the last time you slept?”

“That's not really important, is it? Besides, I can't possibly look worse than you.”

Stark snorted at that. “Yeah, okay. Guess we're both wrecked.”

“Do tell me about it.”

“Because that's what you're here for, right?”

“You invited me for that reason, I think.”

Stark hummed and stood up, causing Bran to tense even more. But the inventor just leaned against the edge of the table and crossed his arms, his eyes not leaving Bran's for one second. It wasn't hard to tell that he was fraught, too, and somehow that made Bran even more agitated.

“Why did you want to speak here?”, he asked, mostly to break the strained silence.

Stark shrugged. “I didn't want anyone to eavesdrop. No one but me has access to these rooms, and all tech is controlled by JARVIS.” He smiled tightly. “This is probably the only place where we're completely alone, you know.”

“Ah”, Bran said, his voice calm even though his blood was running cold. “So we're being watched, then. Usually.”

“Yeah, sort of.”

Bran swallowed and nodded. He wasn't exactly surprised, which struck him as strange, but he still didn't like what he had just heard. “By whom?”

“People we probably shouldn't piss off”, Stark replied with a joyless chuckle. “None of them would hesitate to ruin us if they don't like what they see.”

 _None of them._ Did that mean there was more than one... party, watching them? His thoughts began reeling, but he forced himself to concentrate. “I doubt they will be pleased if they notice you're shielding us from view.”

“They've probably noticed already, so the damage's done.” Stark had picked up a small wrench from his work table, now spinning it around his fingers. “I'll deal with them if they come complaining. They're used to me stepping out of line.”

Oh, Bran didn't doubt that. Apparently Stark had dealt with _them_ before, and Bran couldn't say whether that was good or bad. “Are they interested in you?”, he asked. “Or me?”

“What do you think?”

Bran didn't reply. It was all he could do to stay calm, and that wasn't easy given the fact that Stark was watching him with that cautious look in his eyes. Bran had already come to the conclusion that he must have done something – something _bad_ – that justified all the suspicion he seemed to provoke in others, but if there were people, apparently powerful people, watching him to make sure he stayed in line... What would happen if he did something they didn't like? That question made him feel strangely helpless. They couldn't expect him to play after their rules if he didn't know that rules existed _,_ and the mere thought of being supervised like that made him angry.

“Was that what you wanted to tell me?”, he asked. He didn't miss how Stark's eyes flickered down to his hands he had curled into fists, and the way the inventor tensed made Bran wonder if he was preparing for an attack.

“Depends”, Stark said, his casual tone a sharp contrast to his posture.

“On what?”

“I won't tell you anything if I think you can't handle it.” Again he looked at Bran's clenched fists, this time pointedly.

“And you think you can estimate what I can handle?”, Bran shot back.

“Sure.” Stark's mouth formed a crooked grin. “Come on, I thought you've figured out by know that I know you better than you think.”

Bran pressed his lips together and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. A part of him longed to lash out at the man who had positively admitted to having the answers Bran wanted, but he believed Stark – if he thought that telling Bran anything would result in blowup, Bran wouldn't get to know anything. He averted his eyes and forced himself to calm down.

“Okay”, Stark said after a moment, causing Bran to look at him again. The inventor used the wrench to point at a chair. “I think this is the point where I say you'd better sit down.”

“I don't want to sit down”, Bran replied, voice markedly even.

Stark sighed and threw the tool on the table again. “Fine. Just don't keel over, then.” He rubbed his thighs and returned Bran's gaze, direct but still somewhat uncertain. “I don't really know how to do this”, he admitted eventually. “I shouldn't be doing this at all.”

“But you will do it, anyway”, Bran said. It wasn't a question.

“If I can”, Stark said, frowning. “Not sure about that, to be honest.”

Bran didn't know what to say to that, so he just waited and looked at Stark until the man spoke up again.

“What do you know?”

“About what?”

Stark gestured at Bran, shrugging. “Yourself.” When Bran just stared at him, he sighed and added, “Okay, look, you have to meet me halfway here. I've no idea what's going on in your head, you need to fill me in.”

“Aren't you supposed to know that?”, Bran asked, eyeing the other man warily.

Stark huffed a laugh. “I still know a lot more than you, probably. But I don't know everything. So, just tell me, and I'll see what I can tell you in return.”

“That doesn't sound like a good deal to me.”

“It's the best you'll get.”

Bran scowled, but he couldn't deny that Stark was right. “Fine.”

Stark nodded slowly, his fingers tapping a quick rhythm on his arm. “So, uh”, he said then, “I took another look at your application the other day.”

“And?”, Bran prompted, getting impatient. He hadn't expected this conversation to be easy, but now he wasn't sure how longer he could endure it without losing his temper.

“Your CV says you were born in Norway in some village I can't pronounce the name of.”

“Yes”, Bran said, his jaw clenched.

He tried to not think about that village. He wanted to forget the people who wouldn't even look at him whenever he had no other choice but make a stop at their town to make some purchases.

Of course, he couldn't stop thinking about it, now that he had started.

“When was that?”, Stark said, and Bran willed himself to concentrate on him.

“1986”, he answered. The number tasted sour on his lips.

“That makes you twenty seven.”

“Well done, Stark. You're certainly good at math.”

“Genius, remember?”, Stark quipped.

If they had been sitting on a bench right now, having one of their shared lunch breaks, Bran would have rolled his eyes and smiled, probably. Now, he couldn't even force himself to smirk, too engrossed with keeping his face blank.

He felt as if he was brimming over.

“Do you remember living in that village?”, Stark asked. “Like, your childhood and stuff?”

Bran focused on him again. The billionaire was watching him closely, and his tone was probably supposed to be calming. It didn't do anything to soothe Bran, though, but he grit his teeth and pulled himself together.

“I have memories”, he managed eventually.

“But they're not... convincing?” Stark sounded pensive, not pitiful – as if he was just understanding something himself.

Bran swallowed hard and shook his head, closing his eyes for a second. He tried to continue breathing, calmly, even though his throat and chest were far too tight. Somehow he managed to remain in control. He couldn't have one of his beloved panic attacks, not _now_.

“I thought something like that”, Stark said, and Bran opened his eyes again. Brown ones returned his gaze thoughtfully. “It's really fucking weird, huh?”

“Indeed”, Bran forced out.

“Can you say when the... uhm. The real ones start? I mean, memories that don't feel...” Stark trailed off, seemingly at loss for words.

“Wrong”, Bran filled in. “They feel wrong. Blurry and... illusive. I -” He broke himself off, because his mind didn't stop supplying images he didn't want to see, and he couldn't afford continuing that path right now. “A year ago”, he said instead. He cursed his voice for quivering. “Roughly. A little less.”

“Okay”, Stark said, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“To me, it doesn't”, Bran snapped, bile rising up his throat.

Stark just raised his brows, unimpressed, and Bran looked away. He felt ridiculous, but he was also tingling with anger all over his body, and his mind had already started to lock him out. His thoughts grew hazy at the edges.

“Hey, are you -”

“Tell me”, Bran interrupted the other man, looking at him again with eyes that were probably blazing. “I'm sick of playing games.”

Stark just looked at him for a moment, and Bran was aware that he was trembling and that his gaze was unsteady, but he couldn't make it stop. His heart was beating to fast, and that something that kept pulling and pulling and pulling at his mind made him dizzy. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew that the only way to end this, to calm down again and not make a fool of himself, was ending this conversation.

And that wasn't an option.

“I can't tell you”, Stark said simply.

“You invited me here to tell me _something_ ”, Bran insisted, not bothering to keep his voice even anymore. “You said you know more than me, so _tell me_.”

“I can't tell you”, Stark repeated. He had pushed himself off the table and approached Bran, standing close enough that Bran's hands tingled with the urge to grab him and shake the information out of him.

“Why?”, he spat instead. “Because you think I cannot handle it? Because you fear I'll be a danger to you and your _beloved_ if you tell me?” He sneered and shook his head, his chest heaving with troubled breaths as he stepped into Stark's personal space. “You shouldn't have given me all those hints, Stark, if you want me to stay unknowing.”

“Yeah, and that's why I _gave_ you those hints, genius”, Stark said, meeting Bran's furious gaze almost mockingly. “To see if they were enough to clear that fog in your head. But well, looks like they aren't.”

Bran choked on whatever words he had left to say when the meaning of Stark's began seeping through his muddled thoughts. He just stared at the other man, who looked at him with a quirked brow, apparently waiting for him to understand.

“You want me to know”, Bran said in the end, uncertain.

Stark lifted his shoulders. “I think that this”, he gestured vaguely at Bran, “isn't working the way it should. I mean, you're a literal mess. You know something's wrong, and I think it wouldn't end well for any of us if you figure it out on your own.”

Bran felt numb. His chest was still too tight and even though he wasn't getting enough air he couldn't bring himself to breathe properly. He couldn't _think_. His vision started to dim out, and when he took a step back to flee from Stark's eyes he staggered. There were hands on him, suddenly, steadying him, and it was all he could do to remain standing.

“Whoa there, hey, you okay? Bambi?”

Bran shook his head, and somehow that made the world swirl out of sight. He remembered that he still wasn't breathing. That made him suck in a harsh breath, and another and another but it didn't help, and suddenly he was breathing too fast instead of not at all. He heard Stark say something but couldn't make out the words, and then he was already dragged away and pushed into what felt like a chair.

“You have to slow down. Try to take one deep breath and go from there, okay? You'll be fine, just breathe.”

The words somehow managed to get through to him, and when Stark continued with hesitant instructions Bran tried to follow them. After a while, breathing got easier, and he listened to Stark's low rambling with closed eyes and concentrated on getting enough oxygen into his lungs to make his body work again. At some point he realized his head was in his hands and that there was a hand on his back, moving in soothing circles. The touch felt warm through his clothes.

“Better?”, Stark asked eventually, voice quiet.

Bran nodded.

“See, this is why I wanted you to sit down”, Stark chided him, almost softly, and the hand patted his back one last time before it disappeared.

There was movement next to him, but Bran refused to open his eyes to see what Stark was doing. He just tried to clear his head and not return to the thoughts that had caused him to panic in the first place. There was a long span of silence until Stark spoke again.

“That happens when you try to... clear the fog, right?”

Bran nodded again.

“Whatever's holding back your memories seems to be pretty stubborn”, Stark mused. “You have these attacks, like, twice a day.”

At that, Bran opened his eyes, but he didn't straighten himself to look at Stark. “So the memories I have are not real”, he concluded. His voice was raspy.

“No”, the inventor said, “they're not.” A pause, and then, “I think you weren't supposed to be able to notice that.”

Bran sighed and rubbed his eyes before he slowly sat up straight. His body was hurting all over. “What happened to me?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Why?”

“I made a promise to someone very... important”, Stark said slowly. “Would've explained that earlier if you'd given me a chance to talk.”

“Talk now.” Bran looked at the billionaire again, who was sitting on the table behind Bran. The man returned his gaze steadily.

“It's a promise I can't break”, he said with a shrug. “Like, literally. I can't tell you who you are or what happened to you, even if it'd be better for everyone if I could.”

“And the person you made that promise to”, Bran said. He had troubles concentrating and he had to fight against the blurriness _again_ , but was determined to not give into it. “Are they responsible for my... condition?”

Stark frowned and shook his head, but it didn't seem to be his answer. “Can't tell you that either, I think.”

“What _can_ you tell me?”

“Guess that's what we'll have to figure out.”

Bran's fingers dug into his pants as he stared at the other man. “Did Miss Potts make that promise as well?”

Immediately, Stark's expression darkened and he shook his head. “No”, he said decisively. “We're not dragging her into this. Or anyone else, for that matter. I'll help you, but no one else can know.”

Bran wondered if Stark was putting himself into danger by doing this. _I think it wouldn't end well for any of us if you figure it out on your own_. Why? Because Bran would lose it completely as soon as he knew the truth, and Stark wanted to keep an eye on him?

His stomach turned over, and he had to close his eyes to get himself under control again.

“You don't trust me”, he stated after a moment and made himself meet the engineer's eyes again.

“No.” Suddenly, Stark grinned. “Just take it as another hint.”

Bran averted his eyes, his mouth twisting in frustration. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“If there's anything else you want to believe, go ahead and do that. I won't stop you.”

It would be so easy. It would be so easy to just believe the memories he had and forget this conversation had ever happened. His mind, at least that tugging thing somewhere in there, wanted him to do exactly that.

And that was why he had no other choice but to believe Stark.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“So, here's the plan: I'll clear you some space, so you can bring some stuff and pretend to work here. If somebody asks, we can tell them you're writing in here because the wifi in your room is shitty or something. If _they_ ask, I tell them I can keep an eye on you like that. You can come here in the evenings and we'll try to figure things out. And we're calling work off tomorrow, the team will be happy and you should, uh. Try to sleep a bit. I'll be here, I guess, so just drop by when you're ready. We can start speaking things through then, okay? What do you think?”

That had been Stark's words, that was the _plan_ he had announced shortly after Bran's little meltdown. And Bran had nodded in agreement, even though he had barely listened to the inventor's rambling. Then he had gone back to his room and to bed.

He had slept for ten hours straight, without nightmares.

Now, he was on his way to Stark's lab again, and he was still feeling numb. It had taken a burning hot shower to clear the fog in his mind, and only then he had started to remember the conversation with Stark in detail. He had sat and written it down, everything he knew even though it was almost nothing. He didn't trust his memories enough to rely on them.

Stark was indeed there when Bran arrived at his lab, and today he immediately looked up from his work when Bran entered. He had changed, but that was the only thing indicating that he hadn't been working the whole night.

“You look better”, Stark said in lieu of greeting, but Bran didn't dignify that with an answer.

“I brought a few things”, he said instead, taking off his bag.

“Oh, yeah. Over there.”

Bran walked over to the table Stark pointed at and dropped his bag on it. He proceeded to pull a few pens, notepads and two books out of it, just enough to make it look like a workplace. He glanced over his shoulder when he noticed Stark approaching him. The billionaire stopped next to the table and looked at Bran's things, chuckling suddenly.

“You make giving hints really easy, you know”, he said, tapping at the cover of one of the books. “Why did you bring this one?”

“Research”, Bran said, eyeing the other man cautiously. “For writing.”

“You honestly write about Norse mythology?”

“On occasion.”

“Okay, good. Keep that up.” Stark flashed him a grin. “Might help to call up some memories. Real ones, I mean.”

“Ah”, Bran said, remembering what Stark had said during the job interview weeks ago. “I see. Is that why me coming from Scandinavia amuses you so?”

“Yup. It's kind of unimaginative, though.”

“And why is that?”

Stark shrugged and threw one last amused glance at the book before he returned to his own desk. “It's just so obvious. Like, if you came from, you know, _here_ at all, then it would've just have to be Scandinavia. 'Cause everything else would be even more ridiculous.” Stark chuckled as he sat down, turning his chair around so he could face Bran. “But you still sound like a Brit. Ever thought about how weird that is?”

Bran had sunken into his chair with a frown. He didn't answer Stark's question. “I am not from Norway”, he said instead, voice flat.

Stark took a few seconds to watch him carefully before he replied. “No.”

“Where am I from?”

“Can't tell you that, I think.”

“Because of that promise?”, Bran asked, trying to keep his voice even. “Or because you do not want to?”

“Promise. But also because you look like you're losing it again, and we haven't even started yet.” Stark crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, levelly holding Bran's gaze. “Maybe we should begin with smaller things.”

Bran's mouth twitched into a mocking smile. “Such as?”

“You could still tell me what you know.”

Bran scoffed and turned away. He had to keep his hands from fiddling around with one of his pens. “I don't know anything”, he said eventually.

He heard Stark sigh. “Look, Daggers, I don't like this either. But we have to start somewhere, and I don't know for sure what happened to you, at least not exactly. I need to know what you remember, okay?”

“I do not remember anything”, Bran replied, unable to keep his frustration out of his voice.

“You told me yesterday you have a bunch of fake memories”, Stark said. “You could tell me about them.”

Bran pressed his lips together and thought about it. He didn't know whether contemplating the memories he had would help their case or not. There had to be a reason _someone_ had decided to take his real ones away from him and give him these instead; and he doubted that there was anything in them that would make him remember what he had forgotten. That someone wanted to ensure that he _wouldn't_ remember, and placing links to his real past in his mind would have been a self-defeating move, out of their sight.

Which meant that they had made a mistake – just like Stark had said yesterday, something about this, about _him_ , wasn't working as it should. Because he could tell which memories were real and which were not, he could feel that everything about him wasn't right. And every time he found such a gap, his own mind did its very best to shut him out.

“I am not sure if I can”, Bran admitted in the end. “I... avoid thinking about them, usually.”

“Because that sets off those attacks”, Stark concluded. “Okay, yeah, I get that. You don't have to go into detail, just...”, he made a vague gesture, “just the most important things, maybe?”

Bran looked at Stark again, his eyebrows going up as soon as he saw the other man's expression. He didn't know whether what he saw should make him angry or amuse him. He kept both emotions carefully out of his voice. “You are curious”, he said, “aren't you? Is that why you are doing this?”

“Sure am. It's, like, my scientific basic setting.” Stark grinned suggestively. “I also have this weird need to fix broken things.”

“I am no _thing_ in need of repair”, Bran retorted, glaring at the man. “And I will not be tinkered with like one of your inventions. If you -”

“Whoa there, Spitfire”, Stark interrupted him, lifting his hands defensively. He was still grinning, though, so that didn't do anything to make Bran less irritated. “Not in charge of you, I get it. You won't end up cut open on one of my tables, I'm just trying to understand how that condition of yours works. Just like you.”

“I cannot tell you how it works”, Bran said, words heavy with bitterness. He looked away again as he tried to calm down again.

“Yeah, I kind of figured.” The sarcastic tone earned Stark another glare, but he didn't seem impressed.

Bran didn't reply, and so they stayed silent for a while. Bran had picked up one of his pens, unable to stop his hands from fidgeting anymore, and was now scribbling meaningless lines into his notepad. He knew that Stark was still watching him and that there was no way around sharing some of his secrets with the inventor. He didn't have to like it, he just had to _do_ it. It wasn't like he had many alternatives.

“They are blurry”, he said quietly in the end, repeating what he had told Stark already yesterday. “And harmless. I think they are meant to seem... normal.” He frowned and lifted his shoulders, eyes fixed on the notepad. “They tell me I grew up in Norway and that I retreated to a small cabin outside of my _alleged_ home village, a few years ago. I stayed there until I left for New York.”

“And that cabin”, Stark said pensively. “That's the first real thing you remember?”

Bran nodded slowly.

“What happened?”

Bran hesitated, and he had to force the words out. “I woke up one day. I knew where I was. I knew the rooms and that I had been living there for years.”

“Did you trust those memories? In the beginning?”

“Yes”, Bran answered slowly, looking at the inventor again. “I began questioning them after a few weeks.”

“Why?”

Bran frowned. He didn't like how Stark asked all those questions and how he watched him as he answered. It all seemed a little bit too calm, too collected – Usually, _calm and collected_ weren't words Bran would ever use to describe the other man. Stark wasn't someone who had the time or the patience to listen to other people carefully and for a lengthy period of time. During their work, it was always Bran who listened to the team's ideas and questions and conveyed them to Stark in shortened form. But now he seemed willing to discuss Bran's _condition_ in detail, which meant that something had to be in it for him. Yes, Bran knew that curiosity was one of Stark's strongest motives, but that couldn't be all. Just curiosity and his “need to fix broken things” weren't enough to endanger himself by helping Bran. No, Stark expected something out of this, and Bran didn't like it.

“I visited that village”, he answered, tone cold. “Nobody even looked at me.”

“Thanks to your invisibility trick”, Stark said, brows drawn together. “We should take a look at that someday. Maybe there's something we can do to change that.” He seemed to notice Bran's scowl and added with a shrug, “if you want to, that is.”

“I doubt that _you_ could do anything against it.”

“See, now that you said that, I just have to do it.” He laughed when Bran rolled his eyes. “Your own fault, really.”

“I look forward to see you fail”, Bran replied pleasantly, and Stark chuckled again.

“Have you tried?”, he asked then.

“Yes”, Bran said after a moment of hesitation. “But it... I think it is nothing that can be changed at all.”

“We'd have to figure out what _it_ is, first”, Stark mused.

His eyes already flickered with ideas – Bran knew that look; he had seen it often enough when Stark thought about his inventions. It almost, _almost_ , made him smirk.

“That is the problem, I think.”

“Stop being so pessimistic, it's annoying.”

“I am awfully sorry”, Bran drawled, looking at his notepad again. The page was full with lines by now.

“Liar”, Stark said dryly.

“Me? Never.”

Stark snorted. “Yeah. Another hint right there.”

Bran frowned but otherwise didn't react. He wrote the word _liar_ on his mental list of hints. He still hadn't found the thread that connected them all.

“You okay with a few more questions?”, Stark asked, pulling Bran out of his thoughts.

“No”, Bran said, “but ask, anyway.”

Stark quirked a brow at him. “You're not keeling over again, are you?”

“I am fine, Stark. Ask.”

“Okay”, Stark said, drawing the word out. “How long did you stay in that spooky little cabin in the woods?”

“About eight months.”

“What did you do all the time?”

Bran lifted his shoulders. “I busied myself. I worked as a translator, via the internet, and started to write.”

“About Norse mythology”, Stark said. It sounded as if he had to refrain from laughing.

“You should tell me more about that particular hint”, Bran demanded, looking at Stark expectantly.

“Can't”, was all Stark said, with a shrug. “Tell me more about that book of yours.”

Bran sighed. “It's not a book. Only a... a retelling, you could say.”

“Can I read it?”

“No.”

Stark actually pouted. “Why not?”

“Because it is none of your business”, Bran said dismissively, hoping that Stark would let the topic drop.

He did, but Bran could tell that Stark would ask more about this, later on. For now, the inventor changed the subject.

“Do you know why you lived alone in that cabin?”

Bran didn't even need to rifle through his memories to answer that question. His tone was flat when he spoke. “I lost my family.”

“Family”, Stark repeated, sounding almost surprised. “Do you – what do you remember about them?”

 _Pain_ , Bran thought. Mostly pain. A deep and sharp ache, brought about by memories that only tasted fake and sour.

“Not much”, he said coldly, and Stark didn't probe into it. He didn't ask another question either.

Bran's hand had stilled and his mind was reeling, buzzing with a thought that hadn't occurred to him until now. He swallowed thickly as he stared into space, trying to fight against the haziness that again wanted to take over.

He forced himself to ask.

“Is that true? Did I lose them?”

He didn't look at Stark as he waited for an answer, even though a few seconds passed until Stark spoke.

“I don't think that -”

“I think I should know”, Bran interrupted the other man. He had to close his eyes for a second to shut out the dizziness. “Do I have a family? Somewhere?”

It sounded so childish that it made him cringe inwardly. He grit his teeth and opened his eyes again to look at Stark. The inventor stared back for a moment, an almost worried crease between his eyes.

“Depends on who you ask”, Stark said then, sounding careful. “And I don't really know enough to...” He trailed off, and Bran heard him sigh. “But I'd say yes, you have.”

“Do they know?”, Bran asked.

A pause, as if Stark didn't know whether he should tell or not. “Yes”, he said eventually.

And what to say to that? What to think about that? A family, somewhere, people that cared about him and – _cared_. That was the point, wasn't it? No family that _cared_ would have permitted what had been done to him. No family that _cared_ would let one of theirs believe he was alone and without them. Which meant, quite simply, that they – whoever and wherever they were – did not care.

The sharp ache returned, mingled with anger now. What had he done? _Who was he_ that he had deserved to be outcast like that? He let go of his pen, fearing that he would break it when he kept it in his hand any longer.

“How generous of them”, he muttered, more to himself then to Stark. “To make me believe they are dead.”

A part of him wished he hadn't asked. But he knew that anger was as powerful an enabler as fear and desperation, and that it might bring him even further than those two. He had enough of all three of them, of course – in fact, he had nothing and nobody else.

“I think it soothed their consciences”, Stark said, calling Bran's attention to him again. “They're assholes like that.”

“Oh”, Bran said, looking at the other man with a joyless smirk. “You do not like them.”

Stark shrugged. “What I know doesn't really make me adore them, no.”

“I see.”

He didn't, really. Everything was getting hazy again, his thoughts too entangled in anger and fake memories. He tried to file all of that away, to not think about it as long as he wasn't alone, and grabbed the pen again to distract his hands and keep them from trembling.

“Need a break?”, Stark asked, and Bran nodded without looking at him.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Bran watched Stark work. He didn't even try to pretend that he wasn't interested; he was sure that Stark already knew. But the inventor didn't seem bothered, or at least he didn't show it. In fact, it seemed like he more or less forgot Bran as soon as they stopped talking. In the beginning Bran had wondered if that had anything to do with his invisibility curse – Stark had taken to call it like that, and Bran found himself going along with it – but had dismissed that thought very quickly. No, Stark didn't _forget_ him. Not like the others did, anyway. He always immediately reacted when Bran spoke up again, and usually it was Stark himself who picked up their conversations again after some time of silence. He seemed to have a rather sure feeling for Bran's mood, always suggesting breaks when Bran was about to lose it again. Bran didn't like being transparent like that, but it wasn't like he could do anything against it. He'd had six more panic attacks, two of them bad enough that Stark had needed to talk him through them again. They didn't talk about that, and Bran doubted that they ever would. _He_ certainly wouldn't begin a conversation about that _weakness_ of him, and he was glad that Stark usually just left him and distracted himself with his work, so that Bran could calm down without feeling intruding eyes on him.

This was the ninth evening he spent in Stark's personal lab. Nine evenings of talking about Bran's memories, about the months that had passed since he had woken up in his cabin. They had discussed the reason why he had come to New York, and Bran had tried to explain what it was about that city that made him hate it with so much force. They had talked about his invisibility curse and how everybody just seemed to mistrust him out of instinct. Stark had made his hints. Brad had added them to his list.

And they both got more and more frustrated, because what they were doing was _pointless_.

Whatever Stark wanted to achieve with his hints and talks, it wasn't working. Bran didn't remember anything, and his mind was even more unsteady than before. He needed to write down everything Stark had told him when he returned to his room and had to read his notes in the mornings, because otherwise he would – he would _forget_. It was a weird feeling, that one. His own mind was working against him, wanted him to forget every progress he made as soon as he had made it. At the same time, that _something_ inside him was constantly nibbling at the edges of his conscience, trying to call his attention to something that just kept escaping his grasp. And so Bran slept even less and worried even more, and more than once his persistent nausea had kept him from keeping his food down.

He was miserable, and Stark wasn't much better. He looked as if he slept and ate about as well as Bran did, and the smell of alcohol around him was by now almost familiar. The inventor also seemed to get angrier with every attack Bran had, just as Bran himself did. Surprisingly, Bran hadn't believed even for one moment that the other man's anger was directed at him. No, it wasn't the fact that those attacks hindered their progress that made Stark livid, it was something – or somebody – else. Bran hadn't yet figured out what.

During the days, they worked and continued to fool their team of useless scientists that they were doing things of importance. They still spent their breaks together, and most of the time it was almost... companionable. They were weirdly compatible, in some way. Stark enjoyed teasing and banter just as much as Bran himself, and the American was a well suited opponent in those games of theirs.

But in the evenings that atmosphere faded very quickly. Bran had noticed that Stark actually didn't want to have him in his lab, and Bran made sure to never look at or let alone touch anything without the inventor's permission. Needless to say that he never got the permission to look at or touch anything. Stark also became much more distant and wary as soon as they talked about Bran's “problem” – he had yet failed to find a better word; and Stark had just taken to say _it_ when he meant whatever had caused Bran's condition – and even though his hints were mostly playful and hidden in teasing, Bran noticed that Stark was getting... worried. Of course, they didn't talk about that either.

And why should they? There weren't a _team,_ not like they were during work. Here, they weren't even business partners. In Stark's lab the lines between them became blurry, because their conversations in here contained more truth than any talks they had during their breaks. Honesty didn't come naturally to either of them, but it was one of their unspoken agreements that they _were_ as honest as they could be. The problem was that Stark _couldn't_ be as honest as he needed to be, and he couldn't even explain why. So Bran was more or less the only one who adhered to their agreement, and he still wasn't sure if he liked that deal they had made. He also hadn't yet figured out what Stark was expecting out of this, but Bran doubted that he would like it.

This was a mess, but Bran had no other choice but try and make sense of it. Stark was probably the only one who _could_ help him, which meant that Bran had to rely on him.

He hated that.

Bran fiddled around with his book, the one about Norse mythology, just to keep his hands busy. They tended to get restless whenever he was stressed, which meant they barely kept still currently. He watched Stark with narrowed eyes. The inventor had a bad day. He wasn't drunk, at least, but his mood was lousy. He was hunched over his desk and tinkered around with that small thing he practically always had in his hands whenever Bran saw him work. Stark always made sure that Bran couldn't exactly see what he was doing, and since Stark never left him alone in his lab Bran had never had a chance to examine the things on the engineer's desk. Usually, watching Stark out of safe distance was enough to distract Bran for a while – seeing him tinker, so buried in inventions and ideas and his own mind that he almost forgot he wasn't alone was a fascinating thing to watch. Bran had always had a penchant for sharp minds and clever tongues, and Stark had both.

It was a fascination Bran knew he shouldn't maintain. It still got worse with every day, and suddenly, his curiosity got the better of him.

“May I ask what you are working on?”, Bran broke the silence.

“No”, Stark said absently, and Bran sighed.

He should have expected that. Something else crossed his mind, and he wondered if he could get through to Stark with a little teasing.

“Is it something for your suit?”, he asked, tone casual.

It had the desired effect. Stark stilled and after a second he turned around to stare at Bran, brows drawn together. Bran returned his gaze innocently.

“You know about that”, Stark stated, sounding more surprised than annoyed. A pity.

“Of course. It was the first thing that came up when I googled you.”

Stark blinked at him. “You never mentioned that.”

“That I googled you?”, Bran asked with a mocking smile. Stark didn't even roll his eyes. Bran's mood sank even lower. He had meant to cheer himself up by bantering with Stark a little, but apparently even that was too much to ask.

“You knew I thought you didn't know about that, right?” Stark still stared at him, and Bran knew that look. Stark's mind was running wild right now, his eyes flickering with a hint of that excitement he always displayed when he was working on his inventions. “That could've been an advantage for you, at some point.”

Bran just shrugged, because Stark was right and Bran didn't really want to admit that. It could have been an advantage indeed, but Bran hadn't even thought about that. In fact, he hadn't thought about this _at all_ since he had read about it online, shortly before he had sent his application to Stark Industries.

“Why are you telling me now?”, Stark asked.

Bran sighed and closed his book, glaring at the other man. “Because I am bored, Stark”, he said, a bit more honest than he had intended to be. “And we have not made any progress in the last ten days, in case you haven't noticed.”

“We're making progress _right now_ ”, Stark countered and stood up, apparently not able to sit still any longer. “I've been thinking about how to tell you about that for days. God, I thought you had some kind of magical blinders or something regarding that stuff, but you _know_.”

“Magical?”

“Yeah. Write that on your list.”

“It is already on my list.”

Bran watched as Stark pulled his chair over to Bran's desk, sitting down in front of him. For the first time today, Stark grinned. Bran quirked a brow at him, fighting a smirk of his own. “So?”, he prompted.

“You know that I'm Iron Man”, Stark said instantly.

“Yes”, Bran answered slowly. “Should I add that to my list as well?”

“Totally. So, you googled me, right? Before you applied for this job?”

Bran nodded, watching Stark closely. He felt as if he hadn't quite caught on. He couldn't say what about the fact that Bran knew about Stark's activity as a so called super hero made the inventor so excited.

“You didn't know that _before_ you googled me.”

“I had never heard of you before”, Bran said, sighing. “We spoke about that, did we not?”

They had, in detail. Stark had confirmed that they had indeed met before, which implied that Bran _had_ heard of Stark before he had looked him up online. He just couldn't remember. Bran frowned and tried to connect the dots – what was so important about Iron Man that Stark behaved like this? The only possible explanation made his heart beat faster, and he knew if he thought about it too long he would get into a panic again.

“Hey, Bambi, stay with me. You okay?”

Bran blinked and focused on Stark again, who looked at him with a worried crease between his eyes. Bran swallowed. “Yes, fine”, he forced himself to say.

“Do you need a break?”, Stark asked, and Bran had to bite back a _yes_.

He shook his head instead. “I'm _fine_ , Stark. I understood, that is all.”

“Understood what, exactly?”

“When we first met”, Bran said, keeping his voice calm. “I did not meet _you_ , did I? I met Iron Man.”

“Given the fact that I _am_ Iron Man, of course you -”

“You know what I mean”, Bran interrupted him, sharper than intended.

Stark he leaned back in his chair, his excitement suddenly gone. Bran knew what he was thinking – contemplating whether Bran could handle this new hint or not. Bran let the other man think, but didn't stop looking at him demandingly.

“Yes”, Stark said eventually. “It was a... a business thing. Hero business.”

He uttered that word – _hero_ – as if he didn't believe in its meaning, as if he was mocking it, and if Bran hadn't been distracted he might have commented on that.

“Can you tell me what happened?”, he asked instead, searching Stark's face for even the slightest of hints.

But the inventor just lifted his shoulders, a familiar look of frustration finding its way into his eyes. That always happened when Stark's _promise_ was holding him back. Bran pressed his lips together and looked away, mind reeling.

“Do you know about the Avengers?”, Stark asked suddenly, pulling Bran out of his thoughts. There was a hint of curiosity, under a layer of cautiousness.

“Who?”, Bran replied.

For a moment, Stark stared at him blankly. “So you _have_ magical blinders”, he mused then. “You can't really google me anymore without something about the Avengers popping up.”

“Apparently, that rule does not apply to me”, Bran retorted wryly. “Who are they?”

Stark stayed quiet for a moment, and then his mouth formed that crooked grin of his. “Could you google that?” Bran just stared at him, and after a second Stark lifted his hands. “For science, okay? I'd like to know how those blinders work if they're really there. Maybe they're like your invisibility curse, sort of. Like, that you just don't notice certain things even though they're there, because _it_ doesn't want you to.”

Bran thought about that for a moment. He had to admit that that was an interesting thought Stark had had, and that his theory was probably right. It _was_ strange that Bran had totally forgotten about Iron Man, and he couldn't even say what had made him remember today.

“Fine”, he said, scowling at Stark. “But I want you to know that this is ridiculous. You could just tell me.”

“You already agreed, Skywalker.”

Bran rolled his eyes and turned around on his chair to open his laptop. “Go busy yourself, then. I will not have you looking over my shoulder all the time.”

“But I've never seen you use Google before.”

Stark's interest in watching Bran use technology wasn't anything new, so Bran wasn't even bewildered. “Yes, you clearly missed out on something there. I suggest you ask JARVIS to show you the footage later.”

“Spoilsport”, Stark grumbled, but he did retreat to his own desk and stayed silent for at least four minutes. “Does it work?”, he asked then.

“Yes”, Bran answered absently, eyes fixed on the computer screen.

The Avengers. They were everywhere, now that he was looking for them.

They were a group of six people with outstanding powers, working together to defend the Earth.

Tony Stark, or rather Iron Man, was a member of them. Maybe even the one who was most liked and adored – and discussed – by the public. Bran stared at pictures of the red and golden suit and tried to remember if he had ever seen it in reality before. It gave him a headache.

Then, there was Steve Rogers, alias Captain America. Bran scanned his Wikipedia page and frowned a bit at the preposterous design of the Captain's shield.

Natasha Romanoff, the only woman on the team, looked like someone Bran wouldn't trust for even one second. That feeling was only sustained by the fact that she was also known as “Black Widow”.

Clint Barton or Hawkeye was a spy just like her. His weapon of choice was apparently a bow. He also seemed oddly familiar, and Bran couldn't stand looking at a picture of him for longer than a few seconds.

That was nothing compared to the sudden nausea that came over him as soon as he saw the big, green monster that was called “the Hulk”. For a second, Bran couldn't look away, but then he closed his laptop in a rush. His own heart beat was too loud in his ears, and he grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remain in control.

“You're close, huh?”

Bran blinked his eyes open and looked at Stark, who was standing next to him again. Bran hadn't heard him approach. The inventor's eyes flickered between Bran's and the laptop, and he knew that Stark was prepared for him to keel over again. Bran swallowed.

“Am I?”, he asked, voice annoyingly quiet.

“I can't give you any better hints than this”, Stark said. He sounded unusually serious.

“I cannot remember”, Bran replied blankly, yanking his gaze away from Stark's eyes.

“You don't have to. You just need to know what happened. Think you can figure that out now?”

Bran's fingers were digging into his thighs without him being aware of it, and as he was staring into space he realized that he _already knew_. It wasn't that hard to connect the dots, after all. Stark's mistrust, Miss Potts' fear, his condition – suddenly, it was all too clear what had happened to him. Briefly, he thought about the family that he had somewhere. They had cast him out, and maybe, just maybe, he had deserved it.

“I was not on your side”, Bran said eventually, still not looking at Stark.

“No, you weren't.”

He thought of Iron Man, and Hawkeye and the Hulk, and wondered what he had done. The Avengers _defended the Earth_. Who was he to take it up with them? He was _nobody_ , he couldn't possibly be a serious threat to them.

But maybe he hadn't been nobody before. Maybe he had really, truly done something, and Stark and his heroic friends had stopped him. He didn't know himself well enough to be able to judge whether that was a possibility or not. He could have been anybody before he had woken up in that damned cabin; Bran wouldn't know. But Stark knew, and he had known all along.

 _You wouldn't enjoy power?_ , he had asked on the flight to Sweden, with that disbelieving look in his eyes.

Something clicked.

This was not a curse or an accident. He wasn't simply somebody who had been abandoned. This was – this was _punishment_.

A hand touched his shoulder, but it disappeared again as soon as Bran flinched. He looked at Stark, who stared at him with that serious expression that didn't quite fit him, and it was all too clear that neither of them knew what to say.

Music started to play, suddenly, and Bran flinched again. Stark gave him a last glance before he went over to his desk and picked up his phone. He listened for a while, and Bran stayed where he was and let his nails dig into his thighs, unable to grasp one single clear thought.

“This is, like, the worst timing even possible”, Stark said to the caller. “You like calling at bad times, don't you? Does that do anything for you or something? No, Blackeye, I can't leave right now.”

Silence, for a long while.

Then Stark started a colored tirade of creative curses, ending with: “Fine. _Fine_ , I'm coming. I can be there in a few hours.”

Another moment passed, and then Stark cursed again. He had probably hung up. Bran forced himself to look at him, and found the man staring back at him.

“Uhm”, Stark said. “I think we're blown. Maybe.”

Bran couldn't even bring himself to really care. “You said they couldn't watch us here.”

“I know, it's just your -” That frustrated look again. Stark shook his head and threw his phone on his desk. “I have to leave and see if I can fix things. You just – you just stay here and work the next days as if everything's normal, okay? Don't do anything stupid.”

“Such as?”

“Don't stab anyone. Like, if someone comes and asks questions, don't stab them. Act like you don't know anything.”

“I can manage that.”

Stark narrowed his eyes at him. “I don't know if I like it that you're so relaxed right now. Is that the calm before the storm or something? You should be freaking out right now.”

“I enjoy being unpredictable”, Bran said, but he even tried to make it sound like his usual snark.

“JARVIS is watching you”, Stark replied. The threat sounded hollow. “Don't touch my stuff.”

“Just go, Stark.”

A few minutes later, Stark was gone, disappeared into the room of his lab that Bran had no access to. There seemed to be another exit. Suddenly, Bran knew perfectly well what he was storing there.

After a few moments, he opened his laptop again. He needed to look up the sixth person on Stark's team.

It was Thor. The _Norse God_ of Thunder.

Bran looked at his book about Norse Mythology, and everything crashed down on him.

It didn't even take three seconds until he passed out.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Bran woke to a rambling voice and hands on his body. They were pulling at him, and after a few seconds of confused listening he was pretty sure the voice was cursing. If his head hadn't been throbbing like that he might have snarled at whoever was pestering him. The only sound he managed was a weak grumble, though, and apparently that wasn't enough to shake off both hands and voice.

“Oh, thank god”, the voice said, sounding somewhere between annoyed and worried. “About time. Hey, can you hear me? C'mon, Princess, do me a favour and wake up. You're bleeding.”

It took him a few tries, but eventually Bran managed to blink his eyes open. He squeezed them shut again immediately, the light making the pang behind his temples even worse. He groaned and finally managed to move his hands and slap the foreign ones away. They stayed gone, and he lifted his head and started a second attempt of opening his eyes. After a few seconds of blinking he could make out the face that obviously belonged to the voice.

“Hello there”, the man said, brown eyes flickering over Bran's face. “Nice to have you back. Could we not do this again? I don't like finding bleeding people in my lab, kind of makes me feel like it's my fault. No more fainting, okay? And no more Google, 'cause that experiment was a total bummer. What the hell happened?”

It was the rambling that did it, probably. Maybe the nervous edge to the voice and the cautiousness in those eyes, but mostly the rambling. Bran's voice sounded absolutely wrecked when he asked, “Stark?”

“Yeah, hi. You okay?”

Bran sighed and let his head fall back on the floor, closing his eyes again. “Do I look like I'm okay?”

“Can't be that bad if you're still sassing me. Come, can you sit up?”

The hands returned, but Bran shoved them away again and sat up on his own. His head started spinning immediately, and when Stark reached out again to steady him Bran didn't protest anymore. Something warm and fluid ran into his right eye and blurred his sight. He lifted his hand to wipe his forehead, and then stared at his fingers in confusion when they turned out to be red.

“Said that you're bleeding. I think you hit your head on the desk or something. Wait a second.”

Stark disappeared for a moment, and Bran used the time to lean against one leg of his desk. His thoughts cleared a little more with every second that passed, but the confusion about what was going on lingered. When Stark returned, he crouched next to Bran with a box of tissues in his hands. Bran took one and started wiping his eye with trembling fingers. He realized quite soon that the bleeding had already stopped, and when he carefully palpated his temple, he didn't even find a wound. Which was weird, since there _had_ to be one somewhere, but right now he had more concerning things to be bothered by. He looked at Stark out of the corner of his eye, finding that the inventor was staring back at him. He was sitting on the floor by now, too, one of his legs folded under him. He was wearing strange clothes, black and tight, and suddenly Bran remembered that Stark wasn't even supposed to be here anymore.

“Shouldn't you be _fixing things_?”, he asked, clearing his throat when he noticed that his voice was still a raspy mess.

Stark shrugged, eyeing him cautiously. “I was barely out of the building when JARVIS told me you were in distress. Told you he's watching you.”

“How utterly nice of you to come back”, Bran replied. He was aware that his tone was only a sad imitation of his usual snark, but he was far too exhausted to put any more energy into things like that right now.

“You don't have to thank me, Bambi.”

Bran shot him a look and threw the by now bloody tissues on the floor. Stark watched him, and Bran could positively see the questions lurking in his eyes. The silence stretched into a few almost awkward moments until Bran eventually spoke up again.

“Are _they_ not expecting you?”

“Sure, but they need to learn something about patience, anyway. This is a bit more urgent right now, I think.”

Bran narrowed his eyes at the other man. It took him a second to figure out _what_ Stark had thought to be more urgent than his meeting with the mysterious caller. “You thought I remembered”, he said flatly.

Stark cocked his head to one side. “Did you?”

For the first time since he woke up, Bran tried to actually recall what had happened before he had passed out. His headache worsened instantly, and he pinched his eyes shut. “No.”

“You sure about that?”

“I don't -” Bran broke off and rubbed his eyes, not thinking about his still a bit bloody fingers. “I don't even remember what _set it off_ ”, he grit out, almost hissing in frustration.

“Do you remember what we talked about, before I left?”

“ _They_ called you”, he said, since that was the only thing he was sure about. “You said we were blown.”

“And before that?”

Stark sounded careful, tentative, but that didn't do anything to soothe Bran's agitation. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and forced himself to breathe steadily. He failed miserably at that, and the more he concentrated on remembering the dizzier he got.

 _Oh Norns, please, not again_.

“You asked me what I was working on. It was implants, by the way. They've been messing with my head for weeks now, I just can't get them right. And that's a confession that will stay between you and me, and if you tell anyone I'm having trouble with my inventions I'm gonna take away your tea and force you to drink coffee in the mornings. Anyway, implants. They're still too big, and I need to calibrate them with -”

“With your suit”, Bran finished the sentence. It came out in something embarrassingly close to a gasp, but he was too agitated to be seriously bothered by that.

“Yes”, Stark said, and there was only the hint of a pause before he added, “see? You remember, you just need a bit of help. We're gonna outwit that damn blockade of yours some day. I can tell you what happened earlier, and JARVIS even has it on video.”

Bran let his hands sink and squinted his tired eyes open, but he didn't look at Stark yet. “That will not help”, he said, suppressing a wince when he heard how weak he sounded.

“You think you'll forget again”, Stark stated.

“I will”, Bran replied numbly. He looked down at his hands where there were fiddling around with the fabric of his pants. There were blood stains on his slacks and fingers, and his nails were underlined with red. “I do. I always do.”

“Do you want to write it down?”

That made Bran turn towards the inventor, who was looking at him with a slight frown and an unreadable expression on his face. “I didn't tell you that”, Bran said.

“Hm?”

“That I write everything down.” He stared at Stark for a moment, waiting for a reaction. When nothing came, he continued, “so you _do_ have cameras in my room.”

Suddenly, Stark _almost_ looked apologetic, but he didn't say anything. Bran averted his eyes and pressed his lips together, trying to find it in him to care about his realization right now. But there wasn't any anger, not even mild annoyance, and so he just sighed and reached up to rub his eyes again. They were still burning, and he felt so completely drained that he knew he would have problems to remain standing if he tried to get up.

“Should we talk about this when I'm back?”, Stark asked, and Bran's eyes focused on him again. “Not about the cameras, but... the whole other thing. You look like you could use some sleep, and I should...” He trailed off.

“You have to go”, Bran said.

“Yeah.” Stark moved to stand up, but he hesitated and looked back at Bran. “Unless, if you want me to – I mean, I can -”

When he understood what Stark was saying, it was almost enough to lure a teasing smirk out of him. “Are you offering to stay with me, Stark?”

Stark just shrugged. “I guess I am.”

“I am touched”, Bran drawled, and when Stark rolled his eyes that smirk did break through.

“An ass, that's what you are”, the inventor retorted, pouting in a way that was far too childish for a man his age. He stood up and declared, “I'm leaving now.”

“Good”, Bran said and pushed himself up to his feet. He'd been right, his knees were too wobbly to hold him, and so he quickly sat down on his chair, head spinning.

“Okay”, Stark said slowly, and Bran knew he was being eyed cautiously again. “You heard what I said earlier, right? No more fainting in my lab. Or anywhere else, really. And the other rule for when I'm gone still stands, too.”

“I am to refrain from stabbing anyone”, Bran recited while he reached out for the bottle of water he kept on his desk. “Do you think someone will come?”

“I wouldn't be surprised”, was all Stark said to that.

A few minutes later, Bran was alone again.

 

It was four days later, when he was sitting on a bench somewhere on the grounds of CSN and having a lunch break that was annoyingly boring without Stark, that someone found him.

Bran hadn't written down what had happened in Stark's lap four days before, he hadn't even thought about it, really. At least, he was trying to avoid thinking about it, knowing that it wouldn't earn him anything else than a headache and more panic. He had decided to wait until Stark returned, and so he had mostly concentrated on navigating their team of scientists through their labs, since that was basically the only thing he could do to distract himself. Miss Potts had come to talk to him once, the morning after Stark had left, but since then Bran hadn't even seen her. So, apart from the scientists, who were positively afraid of him out of reasons Bran couldn't exactly pin down, nobody did so much as talk or even look at him. It was awfully similar to like it had been in New York – or, it would have been if Stark hadn't been calling him every evening.

Bran had almost jumped when he'd heard his barely used phone ring the first time. He hadn't known whether he should be merely confused or actually annoyed when he had picked it up and heard Stark's voice on the other end of the line.

Bran knew what those calls were, of course – control, and not much else. Stark wanted to make sure that Bran didn't step out of line, and maybe he dreaded that Bran would remember anything when Stark wasn't there to limit the damages. But well, observing Bran didn't actually require daily phone calls. Bran still hadn't found the cameras in his room, but he knew they were there, and JARVIS was probably watching his every step. Stark didn't _need_ to call him, but he did it anyway. So maybe the hint of worry Bran believed to hear in the inventor's voice sometimes was really there, and maybe their bantering now bordered more on amity – or flirting, even – than mutual provocation.

Which was, and Bran was perfectly aware of that, a ridiculous thought in itself. Fascinating, yes, but _dangerous_.

Bran still expected Stark's call every evening, though.

He was just going through their conversation from the evening before and scouring Stark's words for hints, when he noticed that he wasn't alone in his hidden spot on the campus anymore. He was sitting in one of CSN's few parks, and had made sure to chose the one that was least likely to be visited by other people since it was rather outlying. But still, there was someone walking the path in his direction, and Bran found himself annoyed even though he had no real reason to be. It wouldn't be the first time someone passed him during his breaks, and no one had ever noticed him. He was sure this would be the same and was inclined to not even look up from his book, but then the steps stopped only a few feet away from his bench.

A minute passed until Bran had enough and did look up, already glaring at the other. It turned out to be a man, tall and with ridiculously broad shoulders. He was twirling a black umbrella in his fingers and looked a little lost, standing there and looking at Bran as if he wanted to say something, but didn't know what or how.

“Can I help you?”, Bran asked after another long moment of silence, making sure to sound bored and dismissive enough. He had tensed and wasn't sure why, but something about the other man set him on edge.

The man blinked at him out of blue eyes for a second, and then he smiled a smile that was so obviously plastered on that Bran could only quirk an eyebrow in reaction.

“I'm looking for Brandr Himinson”, the man said. It would have sounded friendly if it hadn't been for the poorly hidden strain of his voice. “Is that you?”

“Yes”, Bran replied, even though he knew by now that it wasn't true. It hadn't taken him long to figure out the reason why that name had always struck him as wrong – because it _was_. But Stark hadn't been able to tell him his true name, and so Bran had no other chance but to stick to the one he had. “Again, can I help you?”

“Do you mind if I take a seat?”, the stranger said, pointing at the bench.

_Do you think someone will come?_

“Do as you must”, Bran said.

He maintained an indifferent facade, even though hundreds of warning bells had started ringing in his head. Why would anyone seek him out? Who was that man to even _notice_ Bran, when everyone else simply overlooked him?

_If someone comes and asks questions, don't stab them._

Bran had a dagger in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He always had. He wasn't defenseless, but he doubted he could take it up with the other man. Gladly the man didn't make the impression that he intended to attack Bran any time soon; in fact, he seemed more hesitant than anything else, but _still_. Something about him wasn't right, and Bran couldn't shake off the feeling that the man being here at all wasn't in any way a good sign.

“I actually wanted to speak to Tony Stark”, the man said after he had sat down next to Bran, “but I was told he wasn't here at the moment.”

_Lie._

“Yes, he needed to fly back to New York to take care of a few things concerning his company”, Bran answered smoothly, repeating the words he'd told Stark's team as well. “He will be back in a few days.”

“Ah.” The man averted his eyes, looking oddly sad for a moment. He ran a hand through his long, blonde hair, seemingly lost in thoughts, before he turned to Bran again. “I heard you were his assistant, so I hoped to be able to talk to you instead. I asked where to find you, and someone told me you often spend your breaks here. I am sorry if I disturbed you.”

_Lie, lie, lie._

“Miss Virginia Potts is Mr. Stark's assistant”, Bran said coolly, “and the CEO of Stark Industries. I suggest you speak to her if your concern has anything to do with the company.”

The blonde shook his head. “It has nothing to do with that. It is more... a private matter.”

“Then you would be better served speaking to Mr. Stark personally, I suppose.”

It started raining. Briefly, Bran glanced up to the sky; it hadn't looked like rain the whole day. Now it seemed as if a storm was approaching, and Bran had to grit his teeth in a sudden twinge of panic.

“Yes, you are probably right”, the man agreed quietly. He kept looking at Bran with a strange expression in his eyes, and Bran returned his gaze with a frown.

“Anything else?”, he asked, wanting nothing more than the other to be gone again.

The stranger hesitated, and after a moment he shook his head and grabbed his umbrella a bit tighter. He made no move to stand up and go, though, and Bran couldn't help but notice the sadness and the worry clouding the man's eyes.

“Are you alright?”, he asked suddenly, and his tone had changed so much that Bran couldn't keep his eyes from widening. “You... you look pale.”

“Do correct me if I am wrong, but I think that is none of your business”, Bran retorted sharply.

The man opened his mouth to stay something, but he got cut off when a lightening brightened the sky that had suddenly gotten very dark. Thunder quickly followed. Bran very nearly flinched, and his fingers dug into the sides of his book which was already drenched from the rain.

Apparently, the man took Bran's reaction to the storm as his cue to leave, because he finally stood up. Before he went away, however, he stared at Bran for a few more seconds, his lips pressed together as if he was holding back whatever words he wanted to say.

“I _am_ sorry”, he said then, and before Bran could do anything else than stare at him in bewilderment, he turned around and disappeared into the rain.

Bran stayed where he was, looking after the man, and soon his book slipped from his grasp and landed on the ground. His hands were trembling too much. His mind was reeling – it wasn't too hard to figure out who had just visited him, and why. And when he suddenly remembered that picture he had looked at four days earlier, he even came up with a name.

Thor.

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

Stark didn't call that evening. But well, that wasn't exactly a surprise, since Bran had already heard Stark's very loud and very angry voice as soon as he returned to their floor after work. It had been accompanied by Miss Potts' voice, which had been very loud and very angry as well. It seemed that the inventor was back, and he probably hadn't brought good news. Not for Miss Potts, anyway – Bran wouldn't be surprised if bad news for her were good news for him.

He waited in his room and listened to their fight, trying to get as much information out of it as possible. They were in Stark's suite, which was directly next to his room, and so he could hear every word they hurled at each other. It was a good distraction for his own troubles, even though he had the feeling that _Stark's_ troubles were very likely to become Bran's as well. If he liked it or not, he needed the man on his side, and Miss Potts seemed to be very persistent in her belief that Bran's side wasn't the good side. Whatever _good_ meant at this point, Bran had no idea.

It took a while until the two fell silent. It was after a few particularly harsh words from Miss Potts that Stark apparently didn't have any answer to. Shortly after Bran could hear a door slamming shut and hurried steps on the corridor, and then it was quiet.

He had to wait for almost an hour before there was a knock on his door.

Stark looked more tired than ever. And not only that, he looked disturbingly withdrawn – his mouth a thin line, the brown eyes Bran knew to be cocky and acute now cold and sealed behind the ridiculous toned glasses he was wearing.

“I'd say 'surprise, I'm back', but I'm sure you heard us screaming”, Stark said in lieu of greeting, his lips twitching into a poor imitation of a smirk. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I did not, actually”, Bran replied slowly. “It kept me from sleeping.”

Stark didn't seem to have anything to say to that, because he just nodded in the direction of the elevators. “Come.”

Bran tensed, the grip of his hand tightening where it still rested on the door handle. “Where to?”

“Don't shit your pants, Princess”, Stark said, but it lacked snark. “I need to talk to you. But I'm tired, I'm pissed and I need a drink, so we're going out.”

Bran blinked. “Out?”, he repeated, arching his brows.

“Yes, out. So go and get some shoes on, I don't have all evening.”

For a moment, Bran just stared at him, but then he turned around with a frown and went to get his shoes and coat. Stark waited in the doorway, and when Bran stepped out of his room and closed the door behind him, the inventor not even looked at him as he led the way to the elevators. Bran followed, careful and wary.

“Will you tell me what happened?”, he asked while they rode to the first floor.

Stark's eyes flickered over to him, but they didn't let any emotion show. Still, Stark didn't sound insincere when he said, “I'll tell you what I can.”

Bran studied the other man in the mirrored walls of the elevator. “I take it that you did not manage to... fix things.”

“Nope. They wouldn't listen to me, you know. Not even if I were the only one able to save their virtuous asses.”

Bran's eyes were still fixed on Stark as they left the elevator. “Are you?”

“Hm?”

“The only one able to save them.”

Stark gave him an odd look, but didn't reply. Bran sighed and decided to leave him be until they reached whatever place Stark had chosen to be their destination. They walked over the dark grounds of CSN in silence – a silence Stark would usually fill with unnerving chatter and provocative questions. That he was so quiet was unusual, but Bran could guess the reason for Stark's foul mood. It still made him uneasy. Stark's behaviour couldn't possibly be a good sign. To his surprise, Bran also found that he didn't like seeing the other man like this. He liked it better when Stark was the one who tried to cheer him up – because Stark _did_ try that now and then, even though they would both deny that –, not the other way around. And Bran refused to even try something like that, to let Stark know that he was worried.

He _was_ worried, though, and not just for himself.

They needed almost twenty minutes until they reached a building that turned out to be a garage. Bran stayed silent as he walked next to Stark, passing rows after rows of cars of people who stayed at CSN over night. It didn't take long until he spotted Stark's car between the others, and he didn't even need Stark's confirmation that it was his. Bran didn't know that much about cars, but he recognized expensive and luxurious things, and this car doubtlessly belonged in that category.

“We're leaving CSN”, Bran stated, watching Stark as he unlocked the car.

“Good job, Sherlock. Get in already, would you?”

Bran narrowed his eyes but complied, sliding into the sports car and onto the front passenger seat. He eyed the dashboard suspiciously, but yanked his gaze away to look at Stark again.

“Are we on the run now?”, he asked casually, and Stark snorted.

“No”, he said, starting the car and maneuvering it out of the parking lot. “We're only making a nice trip to Uppsala for a few drinks because this damned place is driving me mad.”

“I see”, Bran said, looking out of the window. “Do you think that is a good idea?”

“Do you think I care if it's not?”

Bran smirked. That sounded a bit more like Stark, there. “No. I just wonder whether we should talk about our _problem_ in public.”

Stark shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. “Doesn't really matter. We're being watched, no matter where we are.”

The anger hidden in those words piqued Bran's interest. “Even in your lab?”

“Even in my lab”, Stark confirmed. His grip on the wheel tightened.

“Ah”, Bran said, managing to sound calm despite the uneasiness rising in his chest. “So that is why they called.”

“Yeah. They thought you remembered.” Stark glanced at him briefly. “Which means that you did, you know.”

“I just forgot again”, Bran concluded flatly. He pressed his lips together, trying to keep his anger from breaking through.

“Yup”, Stark said with a sigh. A few seconds passed before he added, “but that's – that's not a bad thing, actually. Tells us that your memories _can_ be triggered.”

“That is of no avail when I cannot keep them for longer than a few seconds.”

Stark didn't say anything to that. They had left the grounds of CSN by now, and they would need about forty minutes to Uppsala. Stark's mood seemed actually a bit better already, which struck Bran as slightly strange, but he had long given up on trying to decipher the inventor's mood swings.

“I had a visitor”, Bran said eventually, staring at the dark silhouettes of trees and hills they passed.

Stark didn't answer at first, and when he did he sounded a bit more angry again. “I know. I tried to stop him from going, but as I said, nobody listened to me.”

Bran swallowed, his heart beating too fast in his chest. He refused to look at Stark. “He was there, then”, he said. “You talked to him.”

“Before and after he flew off to talk to you, yes.”

Bran frowned at the window. “Flew”, he repeated hesitantly.

“Did you recognize him?”, Stark asked in response.

“I know who he is”, Bran answered slowly. “A member of your... _team_.”

Stark nodded. “He's Thor. Like, literally.”

“Yes, I know.”

Stark glanced at him, frowning a little. “That doesn't surprise you or anything?”

“Why would it?”

“He's a literal Norse God.”

Bran shifted on his seat. The car was far too cramped, suddenly. “That is not what surprised me.”

“But something else did?”

Bran felt his mouth twitch, and he took hold of the sleeves of his coat to keep his hands from trembling. “He knows me”, he eventually got out.

Silence, for a few moments. “Yes, he does”, Stark said then. “Better than I do, in fact.”

“He said he was sorry.”

When Stark hadn't replied even after a few minutes, Bran looked at him again. The inventor looked almost thoughtful now, and when he looked at Bran his eyes seemed a bit more lively again.

“Maybe it's a good thing he saw you”, he said. “It would be good to have him on our side.”

“Our side”, Bran echoed, and somehow it lurked a smirk out of the other man.

“You just called it 'our problem' fifteen minutes ago. So, yes.” Stark snorted and shook his head, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was saying. “Our side.”

Bran watched him for a moment, trying to process those words. “You still don't trust me.”

“No. I'm not that stupid.” Stark paused, and his voice sounded a bit off when he eventually said, “I don't hate you, though.”

“That surprises you”, Bran noted, carefully watching Stark's reaction.

But “A bit, yes” was all the man said, and that didn't give all too much away.

Bran hummed and looked out of the window again. “I don't hate you, either”, he said eventually, keeping his tone carefully blank.

Stark huffed a laugh, and Bran found himself smirking as well.

 

Having arrived in Uppsala, Stark followed JARVIS' directions until they reached a small bar in a side street. Nothing crowded or fancy, but not rundown. It wasn't an establishment Bran had thought Stark would choose. He had expected an exclusive nightclub of some sort, a place they would only get into because of Stark's name and reputation. But it made sense, of course, that they were here instead – because, when they entered the bar, the few guests didn't even look up.

Without having to talk about it, Bran and Stark made their way to a table in one nook of the bar that was farthest from the other guests. While Bran took of his coat and sat down, Stark was already headed to the bar, from where he returned a minute later with two glasses and a bottle of some probably high percentage liquor tugged under his arm. The inventor deposited glasses and bottle on the table and let himself fall on the chair across from Bran, taking off his glasses. Then, he poured himself a drink and moved to do the same for Bran, only that he paused, the bottle hovering over Bran's glass.

“You still don't drink, do you?”, he asked, glancing at Bran.

“No”, Bran replied, but he pushed the glass in the direction of the bottle, anyway.

Stark shrugged and did as asked, smirking when he closed the bottle again. “I'm gonna try and get you drunk. I'm sure you'd be fun.”

“I don't get drunk”, Bran said.

Stark quirked a brow at him. “Yeah, you'd have to drink for that, you know.”

Bran rolled his eyes and downed his drink, wrinkling his nose at the taste. “This is awful”, he complained then. “I thought you had better taste.”

“It's the best they had”, Stark defended himself, eyes searching Bran's face. “So you _do_ drink, then. What about avoiding stuff that tarnishes your mind, huh?”

“As I said, I don't get drunk. I cannot.” Bran put on a smirk, but he became aware instantly that they both knew it was fake, so he let it falter again and sighed. “I could empty a dozen of these bottles without effect.”

“Sounds as if you tried it before.”

“I did.”

“Back in Norway?”

“Yes.”

He expected Stark to make some annoying quip about that, but the man said nothing. It seemed that they both weren't in the mood for teasing, and of course Bran knew why – there was something hanging in the air between them, the knowledge that _something_ happened while Stark was gone, and that it might cause things to change from now on. Bran was nervous, the feeling bubbling in his chest and making it hard to keep his hands still. He couldn't do anything but wait for Stark to come out with it. He wanted to demand that Stark did that _now_ , and at the same time he wasn't sure whether this was the right time and place to talk about it. Stark still looked awfully tired, and there was a hint of anger and frustration in his eyes that made Bran wonder if the other man was even able to have a conversation about this now. He watched while Stark poured himself a second drink, asking himself how long it was going to take until the inventor would be earnestly drunk.

He was almost completely sure that the drinking had less to do with “their problem” than with Miss Potts. The fight had been a nasty one, and Bran had heard the anger and the hurt in both of thei voices. He didn't know nearly enough about them and their relationship to forge an opinion about who was right and who was wrong. And even if he had known more his opinion wouldn't have been objective anymore, he thought now. It was an almost frightening thought in itself, the certainty that he would side with Stark regardless of whether that was justified or not. Not that he cared much for justice, but anyway. He hadn't planned to become so -

He cut the thought of as quickly as he could and focused on Stark again, finding the other man watching him.

“There are no more hints I could give you”, Stark said, as soon as their gazes locked. “But you have them all, you know. The pieces you need to – to put together, to get the big picture. It's all there.”

“I cannot put them together on my own”, Bran replied, averting his eyes in frustration. “Even if I could – you saw what happened.”

“Yeah”, Stark agreed, taking another gulp of his drink. “How's your head, by the way?”

“Fine.” Bran traced the edge of his glass with his fingertip absently, still not looking at Stark.

They stayed silent for a while. Stark drank and Bran waited. Minutes passed until the inventor spoke up.

“You should know what I've been up to the last days, I think.”

Bran looked up again, but Stark's gaze was fixed on his glass. “Yes”, Bran said.

Stark nodded, frowning a bit, and after a moment he took a deep breath. “The man who called me”, he said, “is called Nicholas Fury. Does that ring any bells?”

“No. Should it?”

“Yes”, Stark said, without missing a beat. “He's the director of SHIELD. What about that?”

“I read about it”, Bran answered slowly, remembering the Wikipedia pages of Barton and Romanoff. He didn't recall reading the name Nicholas Fury, but he linked the words to something else – to Harold Hogan and the words _Nick called._ “He called you before, didn't he? On the plane.”

“Yes.” Stark didn't seem surprised Bran remembered that. “SHIELD is... watching you, since the start. They aren't the ones responsible for your”, he gestured vaguely at Bran, apparently lacking the right word, “but they're your... watchdogs, sort of. Well, at least they were.” Stark grabbed the bottle again, this time not even bothering to use his glass. He grinned crookedly at Bran. “Now, that honor's been passed over to me, it seems. Cheers.”

“To you.” Bran stared blankly at the other man, trying to process those words.

“Yep.” Stark's grin faded again. “Thor showed up at SHIELD's base and demanded a – well, to negotiate things again. You can imagine what triggered that.”

Bran swallowed. “My... _brief_ remembering.”

“Exactly. Thor's, uh, people aren't exactly pleased with SHIELD. You kind of slipped their control when you came to New York and applied for this job. No one knows how you did that, by the way. SHIELD didn't even know where you were for a few months.” Stark chuckled a bit dryly, apparently amused by that. “And now the others think that I'm better at handling you, which is probably one of the worst decisions they've ever made, but anyway.”

“The others”, Bran repeated, tone flat. “You mean Thor and -”

Bran pinched his eyes shut in reaction to the sudden pain in his temples, and he willed the thoughts away, forced himself to stop trying to remember. Another attack wouldn't do him any good now, and so he grit his teeth and tried his very best to control his own mind.

“Thinking about them is taboo, huh?”, Stark's voice reached him, faintly.

Bran forced his eyes open again and nodded, his jaw still clenched.

“I talked to Thor about that”, Stark said, almost quietly. “He explained a few things to me, and then he insisted on seeing you. I think he might – he might really put in a word for you, now.”

“Why?”, Bran asked, glaring at Stark. His voice came out a bit raspier than it should, but at the moment Bran didn't even glare. “Why should he do that? If his _people_ are obviously the ones who -”

 _Who did this to me_ , was what Bran didn't manage to say. Because he remembered the conversation he had had with Stark on the second day Bran had spent in the inventor's personal lab, the talk about _family_. His stomach turned.

“It's a long story”, Stark said, sighing. “I can't tell you. That damn promise's is still in working order.” Stark paused, obviously waiting for Bran to say anything. A few moments passed before he added, “Thor said that I – that you shouldn't be given any more hints. Because it's dangerous, for you. He didn't just say that because they don't want you to remember. He seemed worried.”

“You said it yourself”, Bran replied, keeping his voice even. “Something about me is not working the way they intended it to.”

Stark hummed and took another sip directly out of the bottle. “You spun a bit out of control, I think. Maybe they're afraid you're breaking the... uh. Curse, or something.”

Bran met Stark's eyes. “What would happen if I did?”

Stark snorted and shrugged. “That's the million dollar question, isn't it?” He frowned. “The only thing clear to me is that it's damaging you, and not in the way they wanted. And I think that'll get even worse. Because you're making progress, you know.”

Bran didn't say anything, for a long time. Long enough that Stark emptied the bottle and got another one. Bran felt numb. He had no idea what any of this _meant_ – he still didn't know what had been done to him, or how and why. The thought that this was punishment, that he had done something horrible that had earned him this, was inevitable. Unquestionable, even. He did know, however, that something inside of him was working against it, and he couldn't even begin to guess what would happen if it succeeded. Surely _they_ wouldn't just let that happen. That thought made him even sicker, and he tried to concentrate on Stark to distract himself.

Stark, who was – what now? His _watchdog_? Bran couldn't say what that meant, for both of them. Probably nothing would change, because Stark had watched and controlled him already before he had left four days ago. He wondered if Stark was planning anything – or if he intended to stop it with his hints altogether, since he apparently thought that he had given Bran every hint he could.

And this was the point that mattered now, wasn't it? Stark understood what was going on, much better than Bran did. So, whatever he was going to do, Bran had to follow in his path. Even if only to play him in the end, but he _had_ to stay with him. _Our side_ , Stark had said. _Our side._

“What now?”, Bran asked.

Immediately Stark looked at him again, his brown eyes not as hazy as they should be after one and a half bottles of whatever he was drinking. “Thor said he'd get in touch as soon as he could”, he said. “Until then, we wait. You can still come to my lab whenever you want, but we should try to stop making you faint.”

 _We_ , he said. Bran wasn't entirely sure what to think about that. About any of this, in fact. But still – _we._

The word didn't stop echoing in his head.

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

Unsurprisingly, Stark's alcohol tolerance was rather high. Not nearly as high as Bran's, on whom even the most high percentage liquors had about the same effect as water, but still impressive. Bran knew that Stark drinking himself into oblivion wasn't a rare occurrence, but now that he was watching the man drink and drink and drink, he wondered if it was even possible for him to _reach_ a state of oblivion. When they left the bar some time after midnight, Stark was definitely tipsy, his steps unsure enough that Bran reached out to steady him one or two times, but his gaze was still sharp and perceptive behind only the faintest layer of glassiness. Bran assumed that Stark had took care to not get truly wasted in his company, probably because he didn't feel at ease with the thought of being completely drunk while Bran was still completely sober. And Bran was almost grateful for that, because the first time he had been confronted with a _really_ drunk Stark had already been one time too much. It might have been of advantage for him, given the fact that Stark had let some information slip back then, but it had still been annoying. Also, he didn't believe that tricking Stark into giving away secrets was really needed anymore.

They had talked surprisingly easily, their conversation only interrupted by stretches of silence that hadn't really been tense or uncomfortable. It was similar to the lunch breaks they had shared before Stark had left four days ago. Shortly after their talk about _their problem_ had come to a halt, Stark had demanded a break from all that “depressing stuff”, which had probably meant that he had wanted to drink in peace. For a while, Bran had stayed silent and watched him, but Stark, downing one glass after another with that frustrated and cold look in his eyes again, hadn't been a sight he had enjoyed. Now, the inventor was in a much better mood. If he had noticed that Bran had tried to cheer him up by jabbering on about what Stark's team – their team – of scientists had been up to in his absence, Stark hadn't commented on it.

They had been drinking, Bran more to keep Stark company than anything else, and denying and pretending, and it was ridiculous. All of it. But still, Bran caught himself enjoying it.

“That is not your car, Stark”, he said now, watching as the other man bent over to inspect a parking car.

“I know, but it looks ill.”

“Ill”, Bran repeated dryly, and Stark hummed affirmatively. Bran sighed. “Get your hands off that stranger's car, would you?”

Stark gave the car a regretful parting pat and then walked over to where Bran was waiting for him. Together they crossed the parking lot until they reached Stark's car, and the sight of it made Bran stop and frown.

“You should not drive like this”, he told Stark, who was currently busy rifling through his pockets on search for his keys.

Stark snorted. “I've driven a car in worse states than this.”

“Yes, but not with me on the passenger seat.” Bran's fingers itched and a grin start to tug at the corners of his mouth, only barely kept from breaking through. He held out his hand and nodded toward the keys Stark had finally found. “Give them to me.”

He could see Stark's eyes widen in the dim light of the street lanterns that were lightening the parking lot. “No way. You can't even drive.”

“Of course I can.”

Stark squinted at him. “I'm drunk enough that I can't tell whether that's a lie or not.”

“It's not a lie”, Bran lied, rolling his eyes. He snatched the keys out of Stark's hand and unlocked the car. He could feel Stark's eyes on him as he sat down behind the wheel. His hands were on it immediately, testing out how the material felt beneath his fingertips.

Oh, this would be fun.

The door on the other side of the car opened and revealed Stark, who leaned down to look at Bran. “I don't think someone with a grin like that should get to drive a car like this”, he said, but he still got in and slammed the door shut. He sounded amused.

Bran didn't even try to dim his grin. He followed the steps he had seen Stark do a few hours ago, putting the key in the hole designed for it. He knew what to do, _remembered_ what to do, and he managed to start the car on the first try. Getting it out of the parking slot was a bit harder, but they reached the street without any damage done.

“You've never driven a car before, have you?”, Stark asked. He didn't really seem bothered by that.

“Bran did”, Bran answered easily, feeling lighter than he had in months. It was dark, the streets were nearly empty, and there were millions of roads ahead of him. He could only take on of them, of course. For the moment.

“Speaking of yourself in third person now, huh?”, Stark said. “You know that's considered a sign of insanity, right?”

“I thought we had already established the fact that _Bran_ is not who I really am.” Bran's grin widened when a street light in front of him turned yellow. He sped up and made it in time. Well, almost.

“You're talking about your fake memories.” Stark didn't seem bothered by the fact that Bran was driving _his_ car like a madman.

“Bran had driving lessons. With his father.”

There was a quite long pause, but Bran barely noticed it. They were almost out of the city already, and he was wondering if he could make it to CSN in twenty minutes instead of almost an hour. This car had to be fast, hadn't it? Stark seemed like someone who liked fast things.

“And you remember those lessons?”, Stark asked eventually, and if Bran hadn't been as distracted as he was he might have noticed that it sounded a bit too casual.

“Yes. He liked them.”

“You remember his family, too?”

“Sometimes.”

He didn't want to think about it now. Didn't want to think about the memories that appeared out of thin air now and then. All of them were only vague pictures of a family that was his and at the same time couldn't be, could never be his, _had never been his_ , and he didn't want to think about them now.

The car swayed a little as he searched for the button that would open the window. He found it, and soon there was wind in his face, disarranging his hair. Stark's voice carried over the sound of it.

“Those memories you have, are they good ones? All in all?”

“What does that matter?”

“They are, then.”

“Not all of them”, Bran dismissed, hands tightening on the wheel.

“But some of them”, Stark insisted, sounding almost stunned. “You never told me that.”

“I told you everything you need to know.”

“Only the bad stuff.”

“Yes”, Bran said, and Stark didn't reply to that.

Of course Bran hadn't told him about that. Why should he? He barely allowed himself to think about it. The thought... no, the knowledge that this Bran – this man that didn't even exist, the one to whom all those memories belonged, the person _someone_ had wanted him to become – had, all in all, led a happy life, was sickening. It made the smallest part of him wish that he could just believe those memories, could cope with the loss of his family who had really, dearly loved him, and actually live that happy life in the end. Live as Bran, who he wasn't and would never be.

It was too much to grasp, that line of thought. Too confusing. He didn't think about it.

“How fast can this thing go?”, he asked instead, and after a pause Stark threw a smirk at him.

“Why don't you try it out?”

Bran's grin returned, and he stepped on the gas. The tires almost screeched. Stark laughed next to him, and, to his own surprise, Bran joined in.

 

When they stumbled out of the car in one of the car parks at CSN, Stark threw up.

Bran was still laughing, his chest heaving with troubled breaths, but he walked over to Stark and helped him stand when the man was done with emptying his stomach onto the pavement. When Stark was leaning more or less safely against another car, Bran pulled some tissues out of the pocket of his coat and pressed them into the inventor's hands.

“That was fun”, Stark remarked dryly, wiping his mouth. “You're an awesome driver. I think I saw my whole live flashing by at least four times.”

“I might have overestimated you”, Bran replied. He looked down at what Stark had left on the ground and wrinkled his nose. “I thought you could take a little bit more than that.”

“Turns out that stuff we've been drinking and a drive like that isn't a good combination.” He poked Bran in the chest, thankfully with the hand that wasn't holding the tissue. “Your fault.”

“I am deeply sorry. Can you walk?”

Stark could, even though he staggered a little. They made their way to their building and finally to their floor, still giggling now and then. Their voices resonated in the corridors, their shoulders bumped into each other, and it was _nice._ Stark's eyes were glinting with mirth, and they weren't looking at him with suspicion anymore. Bran wasn't drunk, but it felt a little as if he was.

He walked Stark to the door of his suit, not wanting the man to keel over on the last meters. Thankfully, Stark could stand on his own, and for a moment they looked at each other, their smiles slowly faltering. Bran almost expected Stark to say something, because the man was always talking, wasn't he, but just now he stayed silent.

“Good night, then”, Bran said eventually, voice too quiet in the silence of the corridor.

“Yeah.” Stark nodded slowly. “Night.”

Bran didn't smile at him when he turned around. He already felt his good mood disappearing, but then a hand grasped his wrist, fingers brushing the little of skin his sleeve left exposed.

“Hey”, Stark said, and Bran looked at him again. The inventor was grinning crookedly up to him, a for him unusual look flickering in his eyes. Uncertainty. “That was – a good evening, you know. Just – it was good.”

Bran swallowed. “Yes”, he agreed hesitantly. “It was.”

Stark's grin became more secure, and a whole other look found its way into his brown eyes. “So”, he said, drawing the word out only a little. “What would you do if I've lost my key card again?”

“Have you lost it?”

“Maybe.”

Stark pulled at Bran's wrist, and he obeyed and stepped closer. Warm fingertips kept stroking over the back of his hand, and it was enough to make his heart beat faster.

This was new territory. Unexplored, dangerous, _glorious._ So much better than driving too fast.

Bran looked down at Stark, searching the man's eyes for a sign that he had thought about this before. He didn't find one.

“Well”, Bran said, tone low. “What would you have me do, in that case?”

Bran could see Stark's grin widening, and then he already found himself pressed against the nearest wall. Stark had only touched him for a split of a second, nothing more than hands on his chest to push him back, and now he wasn't touching him at all; his hands were on the wall on either side of Bran's body. Bran could only quirk a brow at the manhandling.

“Are you sure this is a game you want to play?”, he asked. He tried to sound casual, but he wasn't sure he managed it, being distracted by Stark's closeness and that damn look in his eyes.

“I have a thing for impulses and bad decisions.”

“I noticed.”

Now Stark _was_ touching him, his hands having left the wall to stroke up Bran's arms instead. Bran could barely feel the warmth of them through his coat. His eyes were fixed on Stark's as the man's hands wandered upward until they reached the collar of Bran's coat. He knew what would follow, and he longed for feeling those hands on the skin of his neck, on his collarbone, and maybe everywhere else as well, but he moved before it could happen.

Suddenly, Stark was the one pinned to the wall. Bran left his hands on the inventor's body, right there on his sides, and if Stark was bothered by the a little too tight grip he didn't show it. Bran wanted to press himself against the other man, but all he did was lean in until their noses were almost touching and he could feel Stark's breath on his own lips.

It smelled of alcohol.

Stark tilted his head to kiss him, but Bran turned his face away and let his nose rub over Stark's cheek. There was a faint stubble on it, and Bran wondered how much time Stark spent in front of the mirror each day to keep his goatee as neat as it was.

“I wonder what Miss Potts would say if she saw us like this”, Bran mused, his lips brushing Stark's skin. He heard the man's breath hitch.

“She'd be outraged”, Stark said under his breath, and Bran hummed in agreement.

“Exactly”, he breathed, letting his hands stroke over Stark's sides. His fingers itched to get under that shirt. “I refuse to be a tool, Stark. If you want to make her jealous, choose someone else.”

At that, Stark laughed, hands clutching Bran's shoulders. “You really have a problem with paranoia.”

Bran pulled back a little to look at the other man, who returned his gaze with eyes that were already dark, but at the same time hadn't lost an inch of their earlier cockiness. His mouth went dry, and for a moment he found himself unable to say anything.

“Not doing this to make anyone jealous”, Stark filled the silence. His tone was light.

“I will not merely be a distraction, either”, Bran retorted, fingers digging into Stark's sides.

That crooked grin again. “But you've been distracting me for weeks now, Bambi.”

Just for a moment, Bran lost control. He pressed a kiss to the corner of that grinning mouth, then on that with stubble covered cheek, and when his lips reached Stark's jaw the man tilted his head, as if to give Bran better access. And norns, how much Bran wanted to follow that invitation, but – Stark was still smelling. Reeking, even. And Bran also refused to be an impulse, or just another bad decision.

“I would have you”, he whispered into Stark's ear, the inventor's cheek pressed against his own, “if you were sober.”

He pulled the key to Stark's car out of his coat and slipped it into the back pocket of the other man's jeans and then looked at him again. Stark's brows were raised, the challenge in his eyes clear, but Bran just smirked. He saw how Stark's eyes dropped down to his mouth, and then watched as the man's tongue darted out to wet his lips.

He was doing that on purpose, of course.

“Do you have your key card?”, Bran asked with a voice that very nearly cracked. Stark's lips were so close to his own that he could almost taste them.

“Yes”, Stark replied, the word coming out in an uttered breath.

“Very well.” Bran swallowed thickly, and then he repeated what he had said earlier. “Good night, then.”

He had to admit, Stark's scowl when Bran turned around and walked over to his own door was amusing. He still wished that he would hold him back again. But soon Bran had entered his room and closed the door behind him, and Stark still hadn't come after him.

Bran leaned against the door, his trembling hands flying up to open his coat. He cursed himself, because Stark had been there, and Stark had _wanted him_ , so obviously and openly wanted him. He couldn't remember that anyone had ever looked at him like that, had ever wanted him like that. Probably no one ever had. And now he was alone, aching and hard, and wondering why he always had to stand in his own way.

He took a shower. He touched himself, in there, with glinting brown eyes and that damned grin in his mind. He couldn't help wondering if Stark was doing the same, just a few walls away from him. It was that thought, that _picture_ , that made him come, and he didn't feel any better after that.

 _I remember everything, Rock of Ages_ , Stark had said the day after he had been drunk in Bran's company the first time. Now, with cold water still pouring down on him, Bran wondered if and hoped – and feared – that Stark would remember everything of this night as well.

He hadn't been that drunk, after all.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning, Bran decided to skip breakfast. That was something he did quite regularly, often only to avoid the mass of people. Today it had less to do with that, though, and more with the – admittedly craven – need to delay the moment he would have to face Stark again. And whether he appeared at breakfast or not was always merely a lucky guess, since the man's eating habits were even worse than Bran's.

And so Bran found himself in the secluded room in the lab which had more or less become his and Stark's office. He was much earlier than he would have been if he had eaten breakfast, and so it would take a while until Stark would show up. If he showed up at all, that was. He decided now and than that he had a meeting in Uppsala or anywhere else, only to spend the day in his lab. Or in his bed, if the hangover was exceptional.

One after another, the scientists arrived. They were used by now to finding Bran in Stark's office, and so they came to him and let him explain what they were to do. Some of them hadn't stopped finding him creepy, but they were a few others who he had managed to wrap around his finger. He was quite good at being charming, after all – or at being manipulating, as others would probably say. Of course, that talent was of no use if people didn't even _see_ him. But now, after a few weeks had passed, their team seemed to remember him better. And looking for someone made finding and seeing them a lot easier.

They were still wary of him, though. And none of them was interesting, not even in the slightest. Yes, they were all quite intelligent, and finding which buttons he had to press to charm them was fun, but they were nothing against -

Against the man that had just entered the room.

Bran looked up from his laptop to find that Stark was already grinning at him. Of course he was grinning.

“Morning, sunshine”, Stark said, which was nothing unusual.

Then, he threw an apple at Bran, which _was_ unusual.

Bran caught it easily – anything else would have been embarrassing – and quirked a brow at the other man. “Is there a reason for this?”

“You weren't at breakfast”, Stark answered, shrugging. There was a hint of admonishment in his voice. “And I've seen you eat apples before, so I thought you might like one.”

Somehow, Bran found himself unable to keep from smirking. “Why, thank you.”

Stark rolled his eyes at the mocking tone and sat on the table like he often did, ignoring that there where by far enough chairs left to sit on. “It's just fair”, he said then.“I mean, you shouldn't get to skip breakfast when I'm forced to eat.”

“You skip it yourself often enough.”

“Yeah, and now that I think about it, you've never brought me apples before.” Stark put on a deeply suffering face. “You just let me hunger.”

“I am just respecting your free will”, Bran countered. “Besides, I brought you coffee, once.”

“Only because I asked.”

“It still counts.” Bran took a bite of the apple, still smiling a little.

Stark was smiling now, too, and he was about to answer when a familiar clacking of heels made them both turn their heads toward the entrance. Through the glassed wall they could see Miss Potts approaching. Bran had to suppress a sigh. The woman greeted him with a smile that at least wasn't entirely forced. Bran made himself return it, and that was pretty much the only communication they were willing to exchange. He was glad when Potts turned her attention to Stark.

“I need you to sign some papers.”

“Oh, yay”, Stark deadpanned. “I do love paperwork.”

“I know”, Potts said, her smile turning sweet as she dropped a stack of papers in Stark lap. “Have fun.”

“You know why I made you CEO?”, Stark asked, gesturing between his lap and her. “So that I'd never have to sign anything again.”

“This is about the reactors, Tony.”

“But I hate to sign things.”

“I'll collect them around noon”, Miss Potts replied, patting Stark's arm. “Sign them.”

Stark gave a long-suffering sigh, which his friend only regarded with a shrug. Then, she left, and they both watched her go.

Bran's mood had sunken.

It wasn't that he didn't like Virginia Potts, but – well. He didn't like her. He _would_ have liked her, maybe, if she hadn't had so much power. He appreciated her sense of humor and her self-assertion, and he could admit that Stark was lucky to have her. He was quite certain Stark knew that, too, and Bran also assumed that he would do anything to keep her.

And that knowledge shouldn't make Bran feel as he did. It shouldn't frighten him, and it definitely shouldn't make him jealous.

“We aren't together, you know.”

Bran snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Stark, finding the man smirking at him. Bran just stared at him, keeping his face blank.

“Pep and me, I mean”, Stark added, as if there had been any need to clarify.

“I know”, Bran said. Stark raised a brow, so he elaborated. “It became rather evident during your fight I had the pleasure to witness.”

“Oh”, Stark made, blinking. “Yeah. Forgot about that. Heard everything, huh?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Stark snorted. There was a short pause before he said, “We didn't just break up yesterday, though.”

“I know”, Bran repeated. He was starting to get a little bit annoyed. “I assume you have ended your relationship quite some time ago, or else you probably wouldn't get along as well as you do.”

“Look, this isn't gonna be a talk about our exes, I just -” Stark broke off, shifted on the table and tried again. “What I'm trying to say is that Pep didn't have anything to do with what happened last night. And she won't have anything to do with what happens in the future, either.”

“Well, we did agree on keeping her and anyone else out of this”, Bran said, maybe a little bit too sharply. “I don't see why -”

“No”, Stark said, tone urgent despite the smirk that had begun tugging at his lips. “I'm telling you here that I made a move on you because I wanted to, and that, should I want to again, she won't keep me from doing so. In any way. So stop looking at her like that, dammit.”

Bran blinked and glanced back at where Miss Potts had disappeared a few minutes ago. “Like what?”

“Like you're jealous, Spitfire. No need for that.” That smirk changed into a full on grin as he tapped on the papers still in his lab. “So, do you think you can fake my signature? No – forget I asked, of course you can. Here, you take the half of this and sign that, then maybe we'll be ready sometime before noon.”

Mostly to avoid Stark's gaze, Bran stared at the papers now in front of him. As he scanned the words of the front page, he very nearly forgot about Stark's words. He frowned and flipped through the first pages.

“This is a contract between you and CSN”, he stated slowly, looking up at Stark again.

“Only the first draft”, Stark amended. “You know, the basics. It'll take a few weeks until all the details are negotiated.”

“You... let them have your reactor.”

Stark shrugged, closely watching Bran's face. “Somehow I've got to set a foot in Europe. CSN is as good a place to start at as any other. And having a place like this powered by clean energy, that's a good thing.”

“I see”, Bran said quietly, eyes returning to the contract in front of him. “And then? The team will...split up again, I imagine.”

“Yeah. And we'll wait for Thor to come back.”

Bran's mouth twitched. “He does take his time.”

“Well, his people like to make things complicated when they aren't going their way.” Stark pushed a pen in Bran's direction. “Come on, Zuko, I don't want to spend my whole day with these papers.”

Bran took the pen and started to set Stark's name wherever it was needed. Stark snorted when he saw how good Bran was at faking his signature. Shortly after, he began talking about some movie Bran had never heard of. Bran didn't mind listening to Stark's ramblings, usually, but now he found himself unable to follow.

He was too busy staring at the other man.

 

Things changed, after that.

Nobody else noticed, probably. Because, all in all, things didn't change at all, or at least not much. It made Bran realize how close they had already been to becoming... whatever it was they had become.

Maybe they were friends. Maybe they even were a little bit more.

Bran had known from the very start that Stark would be an interesting opponent, with his quick tongue and sharp wit. However, having him on _his_ side instead of the opposite... that was much better yet. All those lunch breaks they had spent together and also that evening at the bar had only been mere tastes of what it was like to _actually_ spend time with Anthony Stark, to... get to know him. There was still some suspicion hovering in the air between them, but it was mostly overlaid by the mutual surprise by how well they... matched. That particular fact had always been overshadowed by Bran's condition before, even though he had already felt it – their compatibility – now and then.

His condition still overshadowed everything, of course. But they didn't talk about it as much as they had before the night in the bar, probably because it didn't earn them more than dizziness and headaches on Bran's and frustration and impatience on Stark's part. There was nothing they could do, since Stark still insisted that Bran had all the hints he needed to understand everything. The barrier that was keeping him from doing so was not something they could demolish. For that, they needed Thor to come back with preferably good news, and somehow Bran had the feeling that Stark expected anything but that.

They were stuck.

Only days before, it would have driven Bran mad – it _had_ driven him mad – but now... He had other things to concentrate on.

Concentrate on how Stark would sit a little closer to him during their lunch breaks, for example. So close that their thighs were almost touching. Or on that warm hand that found its way to the small of his back quite regularly. On the brief touching of his arms, on shoulders and elbows playfully bumping into his own, on those wicked eyes. He did like to concentrate on them the most.

Stark was flirting with him. That by itself wasn't anything new, since Stark liked to flirt with literally everyone. But this was _different._ This wasn't Stark's usual teasing, had nothing to do with those suggestive winks and lewd grins that had achieved not much more than making Bran roll his eyes or scowl at the other man. This was Anthony Stark doing what he obviously enjoyed to do, using every bit of charisma he had to make Bran _want_ him. And it worked. Norns, it worked.

Bran had known that Stark was attractive. He had noticed it the first time he had seen him, talked to him – the first time he remembered, anyway – and the knowledge had always been there, somewhere in the back of his mind. But he'd always had different things to focus on. But now that they spend time together without constantly trying to provoke each other, now that the talking about movies and books and any possible other interests seemed _real_ instead of slightly forced... Now Bran had time to appreciate Stark's company for something else than just the fact that it was the only company he had.

He spent the days at work watching the other man. Following the slightest changes of expression on his face, how his brows furrowed while his eyes got that lively, mirthful look they always got when he thought about science. As if finding solutions for unsolvable problems and riddles was like a drug for him. It probably was, and there were few things Bran could understand better than that. He watched Stark as he gestured around in that mildly provocative way of his, listened to his voice as he made quips that more often than not passed the line of appropriate to inappropriate. He relished their talks and banters they had in the evenings in Stark's personal lab, because especially those times belonged solely to _them_. They didn't feign or force the comfort those hours brought with them; they didn't have to. They could sit in a silence that was only interrupted by the sounds of Stark using his tools or muttering under his breath and Bran's fingertips on his keyboard. Somehow Bran had the feeling that especially being comfortable with that silence was a new thing for both of them.

He enjoyed it, everything about it, and he wasn't self-controlled or careful enough to keep himself from doing so. He knew very little about what was going on in Stark's head. Wasn't sure if he wanted _Bran –_ which surely couldn't be possible – or just his body – far more likely –, but he knew that Stark _did_ want him. That he enjoyed the time they spent together, too. And if Stark felt guilty or hesitant in any way, he hid it very well.

Bran had expected that Stark would make another move after a few days of this game of theirs. But even after two weeks had passed, nothing had happened. Nothing except looks that were getting more intensive and touches that lingered a while longer, anyway. Bran had decided to wait, since watching the man wonder why _Bran_ didn't make a move was fun. He probably knew that Bran was playing with him a little. But well, Stark's ego was big enough as it was. That wasn't necessarily a trait Bran disliked, not at all, but if Stark believed that a little bit of flirting and suggestive touches were enough to make Bran pounce on him, he was wrong. Bran quite liked the attention he got, and he was patient. He'd like to see how much time would pass until Stark couldn't take it anymore.

But, still – a few weeks more of this, and Bran _would_ make a move. He was only human, after all, and Stark was so very alluring.

 

Three weeks after Stark returned, things changed again. Fundamentally.

Bran was sitting in their office, reluctantly rifling through the dozens of pages in front of him. It was the definite version of the contract he had set his eyes on three weeks ago, and he didn't like it any better now than he had then. Stark had offered him to read it, because of a reason Bran couldn't really define. Maybe because he didn't want to tell Bran himself that this, whatever it exactly was, was coming to an end.

They still had some more work to do. The scientists of CSN had to understand a few more things about Stark's reactors, and until then, everything would stay the same. But after that – Bran wasn't sure what would happen. Thor still hadn't returned. Stark would most likely want to return to America, and it was also likely that Bran was to go with him. He remembered what Stark had said, in that bar. About him being Bran's _watchdog_ , because someone thought him better at handling Bran than that organization named SHIELD. They hadn't talked about that anymore, and Bran still didn't feel like discussing it. The message had been clear enough.

He was still scowling at the contract when he was done scanning the pages. He was absentmindedly running fingers through his hair, which had gotten quite a bit longer since he had left New York. He had always had the impression that it grew strangely slowly; even after months of not cutting it, it didn't even reach his shoulders. It had started to curl a little in his neck, though, and he had taken to combing it back to keep it from falling into his eyes. It was better like this. Not _good,_ but at least he didn't have that weird notion of _too short_ every time he looked at or touched his hair.

“ _Mr. Himinson, I'm sorry to disturb you, but something has occurred. I need you to listen closely._ ”

Pulled out of his thoughts by the voice of Stark's favorite AI, Bran raised his head. “I'm listening.”

“ _There will be someone entering the lab in about four minutes_ ”, JARVIS said, his tone differing only so much from his usual one. There was a hint of urgency hidden beneath politeness, and not for the first time Bran wondered if the computer did that intentionally or if that was an actual emotion slipping through. “ _It is very important that he doesn't see you. He will probably head directly to where you are, but it's likely that he will not notice you._ ”

Bran frowned. “And who is this man?”

“ _Mr. Stark will be there in a few minutes to distract him. He will explain everything to you later. He asks you to stay where you are; it will not take long._ ”

Slowly, Bran closed the contract, his eyes searching every spot of the lab he could see through the glassed wall. “Very well.”

“ _Thank you_.”

He couldn't detect anything unusual. Everything he could see looked the same as always; scientists working at their desks or discussing things with each other, all seemingly concentrating on their work. Bran waited, his mind running fast. He wasn't able to figure out what was going on, not with the little information he had. Inwardly, he cursed Stark for not speaking to him himself. He had called him through JARVIS often enough. But, well, it might be more appropriate to curse the man for not being here in the first place. He had been in a bad mood the whole day and headed to his personal lab about a hour ago, leaving _this_ lab under Bran's surveillance. Maybe his absence could be of use, but Bran's first reaction to the AI's announcement was more frustration and nervousness then anything else.

Bran didn't have to wait very long. JARVIS had been right with his guess, after four minutes Bran could see an unfamiliar man making his way through the lab. He stopped at one scientist's desk, asking the woman something and nodding when she pointed at their office. The man came closer, and Bran's frown started to deepen.

He was pretty sure he didn't know the man. But he had also been very sure that he hadn't known Stark, and that had been wrong as well. The stranger was quite small, maybe about Stark's height, and he acted like someone who didn't enjoy being looked at. He had an air of awkwardness around him as he entered the office, careful not to make any noise as he closed the door behind him. Then, he stood there and looked around, obviously a little uncomfortable. He didn't seem to notice Bran, even though he sat only a few steps away from him. Bran looked him over, trying to figure out what about this man could possibly be a threat. He seemed kind enough, his eyes attentive and unmistakably intelligent behind the modest glasses he was wearing.

In hindsight, Bran knew that he should have stayed silent. But, well – he just couldn't resist.

“Can I help you?”

Instantly the man's eyes focused on him. They immediately widened, and the stranger's whole body went rigid. Bran quirked a brow at him, but it took a moment until the brown haired man found his voice.

“ _You_ – you should be – _shouldn't_ be – this isn't -”

“Yes?”, Bran prompted, since the man's spluttering didn't seem to result in anything.

The stranger didn't answer.

Instead, he turned green.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote an additional chapter for this story! It's the next part in the series, you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16103399). It should be read after chapter fifteen! :)

Bran was sure JARVIS was saying something, but he couldn't make out the words. The blood rushing in his ears was too loud, and he couldn't concentrate on anything else than the man in front of him. The man who had looked so harmless only seconds before, and who now didn't even look like a man anymore.

_\- Robert Bruce Banner, renowned scientist who was highly respec -_

The green monster roared, and maybe it – he? - even said something, but Bran didn't understand that, either. He had scrambled to his feet and was now stumbling back, finding that there was no air left in the room to breathe. Banner's clothes lay shredded on the floor.

_\- exposure to high levels of Gamma Radiation instead of -_

Scraps of Banner's Wikipedia page flashed through Bran's mind as the Hulk lunged at him. Bran had somehow managed to get behind the table, which was thrown across the room by the creature, slamming into the glassed while. Millions of shards poured down, but Bran didn't even notice. He only barely dodged with a leap to the side when the Hulk tried to grab his ankle.

_\- You are, all of you are beneath me! I am a -_

He heard people scream, somewhere far away. He tripped over various things as he tried to get to the shattered door, tried to get out, but the room was too small and the Hulk -

-  _I will not be bullied by -_

\- the Hulk caught him, his hand big enough to fit around his waist. In one second he went flying – something inside of him snapped – in the next he'd already crushed into the nearest wall, the collision pressing the air out of his lungs. He struggled for breath, his head spinning, his -

-  _spine, his_ spine,  _his -_

Another roar, and he leaped up to his feet, ignoring the pain flashing through his head, his leg, his ribs –  _not his spine, this time –_  and the Hulk clutched at him again, but this time he saw it happen and was faster, already falling towards the corridor.

The Hulk didn't follow him.

He tumbled against the wall across from their office, his leg barely able to carry his weight. He looked back at the destroyed room, just in time to see the Hulk grabbing after -

-  _you will find that_   _illusions are useful, but sadly they vanish as soon as -_

The illusion of himself he had left in the office flickered out like a dying candle as soon as the Hulk got his hands on it, and the split of a second later a new one appeared in another corner of the room. The green creature chased after it. On the corridor, he stumbled backwards, away from the office into their lab, and there were people screaming, and he couldn't -

-  _the unspoken truth of humanity -_

His legs gave in, and he fell to his knees in front of the building. He threw up on the paved sidewalk, trembling all over, as he recognized the scraps of thoughts and sentences and pictures that were now rushing through his head.

The sound of something heavy landing in front of him and a shouting voice weren't enough to pull him out of his mind, but the metallic hands on his shoulders were.

He coughed as they shook him, and when he after seconds or hours finally managed to look up, he found Stark kneeling in front him. His face was the only part of his body not covered by his suit. His mouth was moving, but he was making no noise, or maybe everything else was just too loud, and -

-  _No drink? You sure? -_

The ringing in his ears ceased, bit by bit. He could hear Stark now, his rambling, his cursing, but he still didn't pay attention to the other's words. He was still drowning in the words he suddenly  _remembered_. But Stark was there, and there was worry in his eyes, and -

_When they come, and they will, they'll come for you._

And he still needed him on his side.

“I'm fine”, he rasped, still coughing. “I'm fine. People – There are still people in there.”

Stark stared at him, and he stared back, and something disturbing scurried over Stark's face for a moment before he found his voice again.

“Okay, yes, I know”, he said, almost stumbling over the words. “I know, I have to -”

“I can help”, he offered, following suit as Stark stood up again. His leg was already healing. “Occupy the creature, and I will get the others out.”

“I don't think that's -”

“I won't be able to stay for very long”, he interrupted the human, causing him to frown.

JARVIS' voice could be heard from the inside of his helmet, and the Stark's eyes flickered back to the building. People were still screaming. When he looked back at him again, the look in his eyes was hard.

“If you pull any tricks”, he said lowly, “I'm gonna make you regret it.”

“I don't doubt that you will.”

“Loki, I'm -”

“Don't fret, Stark. I understand, and I promise to behave.”

“Right”, Stark replied, snorting, but the amusement in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Get Big Green out, first.” The front part of his helmet snapped down again, covering his face. “As fast as you can. Then the people.”

“Fine”, Loki agreed, his mouth twitching. “Be ready. Three seconds.”

Stark nodded, and Loki returned to their lab; his magic allowing him to teleport even though both his body and his mind protested against it very vehemently.

Their lab lay in pieces. The Hulk had had enough time to destroy two or three walls, maybe even the ceiling – he'd probably done it while chasing Loki's illusions, which he really should have controlled better. But  _Bran_  had no idea how, and Loki hadn't had any time to think about that – his illusions died, all at the very same moment, and the Hulk dashed towards him when he spotted him. Loki pulled the creature with him as he teleported back to Stark, and he had to vomit again as soon as his feet were back on the pavement.

“That was five seconds”, Stark shouted over the Hulk's roaring, and Loki almost smirked.

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Loki spent them helping dozens of people get out of the building, mostly via the staircases instead of teleportation – his body didn't seem to be used to that anymore, and he couldn't spend the brief time he got retching – or pulling them out of ruins, while Stark was outside fighting the Hulk and trying to bring Banner back. However he wanted to achieve that was beyond Loki. More than once he found himself looking out for Stark, or even wincing when he heard crashes from outside. But those sounds ceased after a while, because apparently Stark had lured the beast a bit further away from the building, maybe even from CSN as a whole. Loki knew that there was a lot of empty space around the complex, a much better space for a fight like that.

The whole time, Loki was fighting against the barriers in his mind, in his very core. Tried to resist the external, but oh so familiar magic that tried to pull him back into its grasp.

It succeeded after twenty four minutes.

His last thought was that he had lasted surprisingly long; and then the world went black around him.

 

Bran woke up in a room he didn't know. His head hurt; the pang behind his temples sharper than it had ever been before. His throat was sore, just like every other part of his body, and for a few minutes, he couldn't make himself move. He just stared at the ceiling for a while, trying to figure out what had happened, but his mind was too foggy for any clear thought to form.

“Hey, Green Eyes, you alright?”

Bran blinked and forced himself to turn his far too heavy head. He squinted his eyes at the man sitting next to what was apparently the bed he was lying in. After a few seconds of staring at him, he recognized Stark, and let his head fall back again with a muffled groan.

“I'll just take that as a yes. You look horrible, though. Want some water or anything?”

Bran shook his head, which made it hurt even more, and closed his eyes again. Stark stayed silent, for once in his life. After a while Bran managed to open his mouth, but what came out didn't even vaguely resemble his usual voice. “Where...?”

“In my suite”, Stark answered lightly. “In my bed, to be precise. Needed to keep an eye on you, and I like this room better than yours.”

Bran didn't really care, so he made a noncommittal sound that was more like another groan, and opened one eye to glare at Stark when the man snorted.

“Go ahead and pass out again, if you want to”, Stark told him. “You've only been out for ten hours or so.”

Bran opened his other eye and lifted his head again. “Ten hours?”, he repeated, the words coming out in a rasp.

“Yup.”

Slowly, Bran propped himself up on his elbows. His head was starting to become clearer again, and when Stark offered him a glass of water again, he took it. He coughed a little after taking a first sip, but at least it helped with his sore throat.

“I haven't slept that long in months”, he murmured, and Stark snorted again, but otherwise didn't react.

Bran glanced at himself and found that he was still wearing the suit he'd put on in the morning. Well, only the pants, the jacket was gone. There was blood and something that looked horribly like vomit on his white shirt. But that didn't tell him what was going on, either, so he looked back at Stark and returned the man's sharp gaze. Now that he really looked at him, Bran noticed how tired Stark seemed, and he wondered what the inventor had been doing the ten hours Bran had been sleeping. He also saw the bruises – on Stark's forehead and cheek, and on his lower arm that was exposed by his shirt he'd rolled up to his sleeves.

“You've no idea what happened, huh?”, Stark asked, scrutinizing him in return.

Bran swallowed and shook his head.

Stark sighed. “What do you remember?”

Bran sat up properly, the glass still in his hands. His head was turning a little, but at least he didn't feel like he might pass out again. He cleared his throat, and tried to make sense of the chaos in his mind.

“There was that man”, he said eventually. “He -” He frowned at the memory of the stranger, who probably hadn't been a stranger at all. “He turned into -”

“The Hulk”, Stark filled in when Bran didn't finish his sentence. “Yeah. And then?”

Bran shook his head again, lifting his shoulders. Stark shifted on his chair, wincing as he did, and Bran's eyes wandered away from Stark's face to see where else he was hurt. They snapped up to Stark's face again when the man spoke up.

“He attacked you”, he said, and if that made him feel anything, his voice gave nothing away. “Destroyed the whole lab in the process. You managed to get out.”

Bran tried to not think too much about the memory of the green beast dashing towards him. He did remember that, and he remembered being grabbed and thrown away like a puppet, but apart from that – nothing, nothing,  _nothing._

“How?”, he asked flatly, because he was fairly sure that they hadn't been a way out.

Stark had the audacity to yawn before he answered. “You remembered. I mean, I'm pretty sure you did. I can't say how, but you somehow managed to break free from... well, you know.  _It._ Not for very long, maybe half an hour or so, and not completely, but you got it all back, for a while.”

Bran stared at him. His hands trembled, and after a moment Stark leaned forward and took the glass from him, probably to keep him from spilling water over the whole bed.

“Half an hour”, he repeated, the words barely audible. “What did I – he -”

“ _You_ ”, Stark interrupted him, nodding toward Bran's shirt, “puked over the whole sidewalk, for one thing. Twice, even. Kind of impressive considering that you hadn't even eaten anything. I stepped into it. But when you were done with that, you helped, so I think I won't make you clean my suit, after all.”

Rambling. Always with the rambling. Bran swallowed thickly. “I helped?”

“Yes. Saved a few lives, were the hero in shining armor, you know, that sort of thing.” Stark rolled his eyes a bit, smirking. “Which is really  _not_  your thing, usually, at least as far as I know, and I have the feeling you didn't do it just for the sake of helping.  _But_ I'm willing to let that one go for the moment and say thank you, because without you things would've gotten even uglier.” The smirk faded again, the brown eyes getting a bit cold. “Although things wouldn't have gotten ugly in the first place if you'd just held that damn tongue of yours.”

“You knew I wouldn't”, Bran countered admittedly weakly, but then anger spiked somewhere deep inside of him, and even though it made his head reel he didn't fight it. And why should he – of all the feelings nagging and clawing and tearing at him,  _anger_  he knew. Anger he could handle.“You could have warned me”, he hissed, “his name would have been enough. Had I known who he was, I  _would_  have stayed silent. What did you expect, that I -”

“I  _knew_  you would say something”, Stark interrupted him, just a hint of irritation in his voice. “And I know I should've been there before you could say anything at all, but Bruce was already in the elevator when he called me, and I didn't have the  _time_. Okay? It wasn't my plan to – to let you walk right into a trap or anything, I just wasn't fast enough. Should've been faster, but -”

He cut himself off, averted his eyes and pressed his lips together. All playfulness he'd displayed just a minute ago was gone. Bran watched him, and realized he wasn't the only one who was angry at Stark.

“Did someone get hurt?”, he asked after a while, and Stark's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

“A few”, was all he said.

“Miss Potts?”

“Wasn't in the building.”

“What about Banner?”

“Would you – just  _don't_ , okay, it was a long fucking day, and I can't deal with that right now. Just stop.”

Bran kept looking at him, even though a knot started forming in his chest. “With what?”

“Pretending that you care”, Stark said, sounding more exhausted than angry. He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes, not even looking at Bran anymore. “You don't give a damn about Pep and Bruce, or about anyone else who got hurt, and I don't need you putting on an act right now.”

Ah.

That was all, for a second – just understanding what was going on in Stark's head, and the strange numbness following on the heels of that realization. Bran might have laughed if it weren't for that numbness – here he was, trying to be  _nice_ , and Stark didn't believe him. Of course he didn't.

Instead of laughing, he asked, “Why are you still here, then?”

Stark's eyes snapped back to him. “What?”

“Why are you still here?”, Bran repeated, voice dripping with a bitterness he couldn't hold back. “You wanted to see if I would remember, is that it? No, you  _knew_ that I would not. And you were right, because here I am, knowing  _nothing,_ and there is no need to keep an eye on me anymore. I am no threat, to anyone.”

“You're always a threat to everyone”, Stark said. It wasn't a joke.

“Am I? So that is the reason you are here?” He waited for a reply, but Stark didn't say anything. It didn't matter; the answer was obvious enough. Bran leaned forward, allowing that acid smirk to break through. “Did you truly wait at my bed for ten long hours just for something JARVIS could have done?”

Stark held Bran's gaze, and it was clear that they both knew the answer to that question was no.  _No,_ even though they weren't supposed to be on the same side.  _No,_ even though they didn't trust each other.  _No_ , because there was indeed worry in Stark's eyes. Or had been, at least, when Bran had woken up.

 _No,_ because Stark did care, even though he believed Bran didn't.

“I wasn't here the whole ten hours”, Stark said eventually, and the smile that was tugging at his lips was almost real. “Just like, I don't know. Maybe four and a half. Had some other stuff to do than watching you sleep, you know.”

Back to jokes, then. Bran would have scoffed, if there hadn't been that part of him that was relieved.

“Oh? Such as?”

“Keeping Bruce from beating himself up because of this, mostly.” Stark took a breath, glancing at Bran before he looked away. “I explained everything to him, and when he was done looking at me disappointedly he – well, I think he might be on our side, too. Which is good. He's also sorry that he freaked out immediately, usually he's got it under better control.”

Bran's eyebrows had shot up. “I find it hard to believe that he is sorry for attacking me.”

Stark shrugged. “Well, you didn't mean any harm. At that moment. And he just doesn't like hurting people, I guess, even when those people are you.”

There was it again.

Bran had long figured out that this was supposed to be a punishment for a crime he didn't remember committing. Every so often he became aware of that again. It was obvious in the way Stark spoke of him sometimes, just like he had now, or in the way Potts still looked at him. It was impossible to miss that whoever he had been - whoever he was - was someone who deserved that punishments, at least in their minds.  
  
It was sickening, and frustrating because he still couldn't even take a guess at what he had done, but he was almost getting used to that.  
  
After they had sat in silence for a while, he asked, "Did you talk to me?"  
  
Stark hesitated. "Yes, briefly."  
  
"Good", Bran said. "Tell me everything."


	17. Chapter 17

They slept in the same bed.

It had happened more accidentally than anything else, at least that was what Bran assumed when Stark's cry woke him up after far too few hours of sleep. He didn't remember much in those first few seconds of confusion after waking up; only that he had been so tired that he had barely been able to keep himself in a sitting position, and that Stark had made him change into a clean shirt before he fell asleep. It took a moment until he realized that he wasn't alone in a bed that wasn't his, and another until he recognized the panting man next to him as Stark.

He watched out of bleary eyes while Stark struggled to turn on the bedside lamp. He had turned his back to Bran and now sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. He was trembling, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps he was obviously trying and failing to control. Bran just stared at him for a long moment before he sat up. He had been lying curled up on the other side of the bed, as far away from Stark as possible, and he still didn't dare to move closer.

“Stark?”

The inventor shook his head. He sucked in a sharp breath; a sound escaping his throat that Bran probably wasn't meant to hear. Bran did hear it, though, and recognized it – he had heard himself make sounds like that, after his nightmares.

He was aware that Stark had his own demons. Bran saw them often enough; in a slightly bitter twitch of lips or haunted eyes, heard them in joyless chuckles and sarcastic words. They were far easier to spot then Stark wanted them to be, and Bran had never once commented on them. He didn't comment on them now, either.

“Do you want me to go?”, he asked instead, voice still a bit raspy from sleep.

And Stark nodded, his hands grasping the bed sheet as if he needed something to hold onto.

Bran slid out of bed, picked up his shoes, dirty shirt and jacket from the floor, and left Stark's suite.

He stood on the corridor for a moment, his bare toes curling against the carpet. He had no idea where his socks were. Sighing, he walked over to his door, where he rifled through the pockets of his suit jacket until he found his wallet and the key card. In his room, he undressed and immediately crawled into bed again.

He couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about Stark and wondering what he had dreamed of, and if he had calmed down by now. Bran doubted that the other man would just go back to sleep, and so he listened for steps outside of his room. He heard them about twenty minutes later, and even contemplated joining Stark in his lab – for Bran was sure that was where the inventor was on his way to -, just so he wouldn't have to lay here and agonizing about what had happened the day before. He decided against it, in the end, since Stark had quite obviously wanted to be alone. And so Bran sighed and turned over, his eyes closed, and thought about what Stark had told him.

He had to think about it at some point, anyway.

He had passed out in a hallway, apparently. He had been helping the last scientists in the building to get out, and, from what they had told Stark, he had just collapsed without any warning. ( _“As if someone had switched him off, they said.”_ ) They had tried to carry him out, but he'd been too heavy ( _“There were four of them, but I guess you're heavier than you look, huh?”_ ) and so they had left him there in the building that had been close to collapsing, too. It had been Stark himself who had come looking for him in the end, after he had managed to get through to the Hulk and make him turn back into Banner. In his suit, he''d been able to drag Bran out of the building. He had tried waking him up, but -  _“You were completely out of it. Barely breathing, even. At first, I thought -”_ The inventor hadn't finished that sentence, but Bran could imagine well enough. Stark had brought Bran to his suite and had JARVIS watch over him while he  _“took care of things”,_ as he had very vaguely put it. Bran had followed up on it, but Stark had only told him one thing. 

They would return to New York, as soon as possible. On the following day already, probably – which meant  _today_ , because the sun was going to rise in a few hours. 

It wasn't difficult to guess that Stark had gotten another call. The man hadn't seemed happy about their imminent return to America, which meant it wasn't really his choice. SHIELD, then, probably. Yes, that Bran could guess, but apart from that... There was much more than Stark had been willing to tell him. There was something he didn't say, or couldn't say, and no matter how thoroughly Bran searched between the lines, he had no idea what it exactly was. He had been too exhausted to really think about that, last evening, but now he couldn't stop pondering.

It had to have something to do with the fact that he had remembered. That he'd been  _back_ , even though it had only been for half an hour. That wouldn't just go unnoticed, or unpunished. The Hulk drawn to much attention to it, but even without that certain  _people_ would have still known, Bran assumed. The reaction to yesterday's disaster waited for them in New York, and Stark obviously didn't look forward to it. That meant that Bran would like it even less.

He was a prisoner here, and he wouldn't stop being one there. That thought alone was enough to make him want to scream.

Bran had tried to make Stark tell him everything about the brief conversation they had had, but Stark hadn't been particularly talkative. His mood had been gruesome, and he had taken it out on Bran until he'd been fed up with it. Bran had stopped asking questions Stark wouldn't answer, anyway, and given in to his exhaustion. He shouldn't have been as tired as he'd been after ten hours of unconsciousness, but somehow he had still felt as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Stark had seemed just as tired.

And so they had slept in the same bed, for a few hours. Strangely enough, it had been alright.

For a few hours.

 

Bran wasn't surprised to find Stark still in his lab when he arrived there in the morning. The man was tapping away at one of his computer screens, eyes flickering hastily over the pictures it showed him. He didn't notice Bran while he went over to his desk and began packing his things, and Bran didn't bother to make his presence felt.

Well, not with words, at least. He did let one of his books fall, accidentally, and watched the other man out of the corner of his eye. Stark had startled a little and turned around to him; Bran didn't return his gaze.

“What are you doing?”, Stark asked after a while, his frown audible in his voice.

“What does it look like?”, Bran countered, picking up the book from the floor. He didn't wait for an answer. “You told me to pack my things, yesterday. So I, being the well-behaved prisoner I am, am packing my things.”

Stark didn't say anything for a moment. Then, “You're angry.”

“Am I? I hadn't noticed.”

“You're very sassy this morning. I hired you because of that, remember? I thought it'd be fun, and it is, usually, but it makes me feel kind of bad when it's aimed at me at seven in the morning, so if you -”

“Kindly stop talking now, Stark.”

“You can leave your things here”, Stark said in response.

Bran turned around to him, already glaring. “They are mine”, he told the other man, “and I will take them with me.”

“I know, I just – I meant -”

Stark cut himself off, raising one hand to rub his face. He was wearing the same clothes as he had yesterday evening, the same clothes he had slept in, and looked exhausted and frustrated. He was a mess, just like Bran had expected. Just like Bran himself, but at least _he_ had showered.

“Yes?”, Bran prompted when Stark still hadn't finished his sentence after two minutes.

Stark sighed, not looking at him. “You can leave them here”, he said again, tone pointedly calm, “and my people will take them with all my stuff to New York. You know, to my lab over there. You can have a place there, too, if you want.”

“And whyever should I want that?”

Stark's eyes met his with a glare of his own. “I don't know, okay? Just thought you might like it. You don't have to, obviously.”

The notepads Bran had been about to put in his bag fell onto the table with a thud. “Why, do I actually get a choice? I'm surprised.”

Apparently, Stark's patience was rather low this morning, because a few snappy remarks and an accusing attitude were enough to make it snap.

“Listen”, he said as he stood up, his voice quivering just a little. “It's not my fault I have to bring you back. I know you hate pretty much everything about this, and I know you hate New York, too, but I can't change things now. I've fucking tried, okay? But they wouldn't buy anything I said, and -”

“And what exactly _did_ you say to them? That you have me under control, is that it?” Bran sneered, even while he clenched his hands into fist and anger made it hard to think clearly. “I do wonder why they didn't believe _that_ , after what happened yesterday.”

Stark didn't reply, but by the looks of him he wasn't any less angry than Bran.

“ _Bring me back_ , you say.” Bran showed his teeth; a parody of a smile. “As if you had any right to decide where I go – what am I to you, a test subject you brought home so you could tinker around with it without supervision? I told you before, Stark, _I am not one of your machines_ , and if you keep treating me like -”

“You are _my_ responsibility”, Stark cut him off, approaching him with short steps and his hands in the air. Threatening him, maybe – Bran wanted to laugh, the sound was already sitting on his tongue, but he bit down on it. Just stared at Stark as the man continued, tired eyes raging with frustration. “I didn't want that. I didn't ask for it. But that's how things are now, so we have to fucking deal. Everything you say, everything you do, recoils on me, and so I can't just have you running around and wreaking havoc wherever you go. Because you _would_ wreak havoc, and actually I think you have every damned right to, but the mess you'd make -” Stark tapped his chest, right there where the blue light was glowing beneath his shirt. “That'd be on me. What happened yesterday, the people who died – not just the Hulk's fault. _Mine._ And yours.”

“If you had just given me a proper warning, it -”

“Yes, I'm aware”, Stark shot back, but then he took a deep breath, his hands falling down to his sides again. “I know. I messed up. I'm sorry about that.” He looked away, pressed his lips together for a moment. “Also about all the stuff I said, last night. Should've treated you better, I guess.”

“You don't trust me”, Bran stated flatly. “You do not have to apologize for _that_.”

“I do.” Stark rubbed his face again, then met Bran's eyes again, smirking joylessly. “'Cause I should, maybe. Trust you. I mean, I'm asking you to trust me, so I should.” He gestured around between them. “This isn't a one way street, you know. You need me, we both know that you do. But I need you, too, for something you can't yet remember.”

“Oh”, Bran made, slightly snarling. “Not just acting out of benevolence, then. I had wondered.”

Stark just shrugged, not offering any more information, and Bran didn't pry. His anger hadn't yet faded, but he could understand where Stark was coming from. And he did need him, whether he liked it or not.

“I've no idea what will happen”, Stark said after a moment. He had come over to Bran's desk, and was now playing with one of Bran's pens. “If you remember, I mean. You'll be angry, probably.”

“Yes, that seems likely”, Bran replied sharply, watching the other man closely.

“I'd never thought you would help.” Stark snorted, picking up the ball pen. Bran recognized it; it was the one with the mechanism that didn't work quite right anymore. He wasn't surprised when Stark took it apart and tried to fix it, speaking while he did so. “Yesterday, I mean. You could have easily run off, or tricked me or something, but you offered to help, and well, I decided to trust you.”

“You do not expect me to thank you for that, do you?”

“No. Besides”, Stark pointed at him with the pen, “you knew you wouldn't remember for very long. So that's why you stayed, probably, but still. I thought you'd use that chance to... I don't know. Do something else.”

“So?”, Bran said, not yet understanding what Stark was getting at.

“I don't really know you, is what I'm trying to say”, the inventor explained, shrugging. “Before this whole thing started, I talked to you, like, once. I mean, we saw each other a few times more, of course, but there was only one time we really talked. And that conversation was a weird one. So, I know most facts about your life, some stuff Thor told me, but I don't know _you_.”

“I would say you know me rather well by now”, Bran objected, frowning at the smaller man.

“Yep.” Stark nodded and looked at him again, spinning the apparently fixed pen between his fingers. “And that's the point, you see? I know you, and I'd lie if I said I didn't like you, but I don't know how much of that is _you_. Or if it's just... _it_. What they wanted you to be. I do think you're still you,that this  _is_ you, but I... I can't be sure. So you've got to understand that this is kind of weird, and that I keep thinking about how you were, you know, back then _._ I can't really stop drawing comparisons, and something about that – it just doesn't add up. So there's still that slight chance you''ll want world domination as soon as you remember, and that's making me a little uncomfortable.”

“I still have no interest in thrones, Stark.”

“Yeah, let's just hope that stays that way, then.”

Stark dropped the pen on the desk again, and Bran watched him. Now, his anger was gone – or at least it wasn't aimed at Stark anymore. They stood like that for a while, both dwelling on their own thoughts, until Bran quietly spoke up again.

“Who died?”

Stark swallowed visibly, lifting a shoulder. “Two of our team. Hit by the ceiling, both of them.”

There wasn't much Bran could say to that. The only thing he could think of was, “I should have stayed silent, like JARVIS asked me to. I... am sorry I didn't.”

“Nothing we can do about that, now”, Stark replied, and took a breath. “We'll fly in the afternoon. What about your things, hm?”

Bran sighed, and put his bag beneath the desk again. “They stay here, I think.”

“Good. Okay. Your laptop was in the office, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I'll get you a new one”, Stark promised, and went back to his own desk.

“What is going to happen in New York?”, Bran asked, causing the other to turn around again.

“Well”, Stark said after a moment, shrugging. “I'm not gonna lie, SHIELD's gonna try to take you in. Probably. I'll do what I can.”

“So I _am_ a prisoner, then.”

Stark sighed. “Yes. But I'd – I'd prefer it if you were mine instead of theirs, okay? God, that sounded better in my head. You know what I mean.”

Bran nodded slowly and looked back at his desk, at his messy notes and the pen Stark had fixed. “I would prefer that, too”, he said eventually.

“Okay. So, uh. I'll warn you properly, next time any of my friends come by. And if we could both try and stop being assholes about everything, then we can actually work together and... get your memories back, I guess.”

“We have been working together for weeks now”, Bran reminded the other man.

“Yup”, Stark agreed, “and we've been a good team so far. I think.”

“Everyone else would probably disagree”, Bran said.

Stark just snorted in response.

 

The rest of their time at CSN passed surprisingly uneventfully. Bran spent the better part of it in his room, packing his bag, while Stark, or rather Miss Potts, ran around and took care of organizational things. Stark had a press conference at noon, but Bran didn't go with him. (Wasn't allowed to, in fact.) When they left CSN in the afternoon and finally boarded the plane, Bran didn't ask about the conference, either. He had felt slightly sick the whole day – which was no wonder, really – and Stark's condition didn't seem much better, so they traveled in silence. The atmosphere was still strained, but it wasn't quite as uncomfortable as Bran had expected.

When they arrived in New York, it was early evening. Bran's mood had sunken to the lowest point as soon as he had seen the skyline of the city, and it didn't become better when they landed. Hogan was in the plane, too, just like he'd been on the flight to Uppsala, and shortly before they had landed he'd given a short warning.

“Someone's waiting for us, Tony”, he'd said.

Stark and Bran had exchanged glances, the inventor's expression going dark immediately. Now, there were looking out of the window, at the people already waiting for them to get out of the plane.

There were four, three men and one woman, but Bran only recognized three of them. He could guess who the other one was, though.

“This will be fun”, Stark said lightly, but the look in his eyes was grim.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK.  
> I'm sorry for the long wait. I hope you're still around. <3 I don't know if I'll manage weekly updates again, BUT I will try my best. And no matter how long the pauses between updates are, this story won't be abandoned! 
> 
> Also: I've written another extra chapter! This one is actually plot relevant, so **please read it before this one**! You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283663).
> 
> I hope you like it!^.^

The floor consisted of one hundred and twenty tiles. Twelve lengthwise, ten crosswise. They had all exactly the same size; only a little bigger than his hand. It was a very small room, with no windows and bald, grey walls that seemed to creep towards him. It was empty and dead-silent, and Bran had nothing else to do than count the tiles for the twenty fourth time.

Twelve lengthwise, ten crosswise. Row for row.

He was leaning against the wall in one corner of his cell, facing the only way out. There was wall made of thick glass, dividing the room into halves. It had slid down after they had made him stand facing the opposite wall with his hands where they could see them. It had been a ridiculous ceremony, as far as he was concerned. Through the glass Bran could see the door that led outside. Above it was a camera that followed his every movement. There was one in every corner of the ceiling, one of them directly above his head. He had decided to ignore their existence.

Bran couldn't say for sure how long he was here. Time crept slowly when you had nothing else to do than thinking and counting tiles, and he had lost every feeling for it. Maybe it was a day already, maybe even two or three; it wasn't like it mattered. His thirst became more evident with every minute that passed, just like his hunger, but since there was nothing he could do about that he ignored both. He knew that he could endure quite some time without both eating and drinking when he had to, and he doubted that he would stay here long enough to die of thirst. The boredom was worse, really.

At least they had freed him from the shackles.

Stark had insisted on that. He had refused to leave Bran's side, had always been only one or two steps away from him as they had led them to this room. Stark had made some kind of quip, and then he'd been the last thing Bran had seen before the damned door had slid close.

Bran knew that the man was angry with him. It had been fairly obvious, and admittedly Stark even had the right for that. Stark had stood up for him against people he saw as his friends, and with that he had done more than Bran could ever have expected or demand from him. And he was thankful – so thankful that he hadn't even able to breathe, in fact. But this was not about Stark, and it wasn't about Bran, either.

It was about the man who had barely even managed to yank his eyes away from him.

Bran waited for him, with the absolute certainty that he would come. He was long in coming, though. And Bran was so _bored_. He also wished that they would have at least put him into a cell that entailed a toilet. He sighed and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard and cold ground. He had taken off his shoes and opened the first few buttons of his shirt. Being in this windowless, narrow room made it oddly hard to breathe, now and then.

He wondered what Stark was doing. He didn't doubt that he was trying to get him out of here – couldn't allow himself to doubt that – and the thought he might be in a discussion with Fury and the others at this very moment almost made him smile. Stark was better than every single one of them.

Suddenly – he had just started counting the tiles for the thirty first time – something moved at the edge of his vision, and every fibre of his body tensed. The door on the other side of the glass had slid open, revealing one of the people that had welcomed them in New York.

_Finally._

Bran grinned as the man came closer. He stopped when he was only a few steps away from the glass, his expression stony apart from his eyes. The look in them was cold as ice, and at the same time... Bran wasn't sure, but he believed it was curiosity.

“Are you just going to sit there and grin at me?”

The voice was conveyed over speakers that made it sound a bit distorted, but Bran could still understand him well enough. He arched a brow. “Why, would you like me to come closer?”

Clint Barton didn't reply, just kept staring at him, and after a moment Bran stood up and approached the glass that separated them. He was quite a bit taller than the other man, but Barton looked up at him as if he didn't have the slightest reason to be intimidated. And well, he probably hadn't – he was on the right side of the glass, after all.

“Agent Barton”, Bran said, letting his grin fade. “If I'm not mistaken?”

“You aren't”, Barton answered. “And your name?”

“Oh, I think you know that better than me.” Bran folded his hands behind his back. “To what do I owe the honor?”

A muscle in Barton's jaw twitched. “You knew I would come.”

“I had hoped for it, yes.”

“That's why you let us take you in.”

“Among other reasons.” Bran's lips curled into a smirk. “I'm surprised they let you visit me. Are they watching?”

“The camera system broke down.”

“I see.” Bran's eyes flickered to one of the cameras. “How long do we have?”

Barton briefly followed his gaze. “Depends on how long Stark can pretend he doesn't have anything to do with it.”

“A good few minutes, then”, Bran said, hiding his surprise. “That should be enough time for you to do what you came for.”

“I'm not getting you out”, Barton stated.

“Oh, you don't have to. Anthony will do that soon enough.”

“Anthony, huh?”, Barton murmured, looking past Bran into his cell. “What do you want from him?”

“You didn't come to talk about that, did you?” Bran took another step towards the man, almost touching the glass now. “I do not have all day to chat with you, even though I admit it's a lovely pastime. Why are you here?”

Blue eyes focused on him again. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Bran shook his head. “I will be locked away in Anthony's tower in a few days. I'm sure my cell there will be much more comfortable, and you wouldn't even have to trick your superiors to pay me a visit. Why are you _here_?”

Barton's mouth twitched into something that might have been a smirk. He nodded at the glass between them. “I know the code to open this.”

“And you have a bow”, Bran acknowledged, his gaze gliding from the weapon on Barton's back to the man's hip. “And a gun.” Bran's smile widened when he met Barton's eyes again. “My, and I'm unarmed.”

“I've been dreaming of killing you for months now.”

Bran lifted his brows. “Really? And here I thought this was the first time we spoke to each other.”

Barton was watching him closely, not missing the slightest details of Bran's reactions. “Yes, Stark said you don't remember anything.”

“I don't.”

“He also said you're different.”

“Oh?”, Bran made, cocking his head to one side. “And, am I?”

Barton just looked at him for a moment. “Yes”, he said then. “A little.”

“And you still want to kill me?”, Bran asked curiously.

The agent took a breath and looked away for a second, his eyes narrowed. “You should pay for what you've done”, he said simply.

“Believe me, I am paying”, Bran replied, his smile dying on his lips. “Do what you must, Agent Barton, but keep in mind that I cannot give you what you want.”

Barton's eyes snapped back to his. “What do you think I want?”

“Revenge, of course”, Bran answered lightly. “Making me regret what I did. In particular what I did to you, I assume.” He held Barton's gaze, which started to get somewhat frustrated. “I can't regret something I do not remember doing, I'm afraid.”

“You wouldn't regret it even if you remembered”, Barton said, sounding as if he had to force his tone to stay even. “I don't give a fuck about that.”

“Well, then.” Bran raised a hand and tapped at the glass. “Go ahead and use your code. You might want to hurry, I'm not sure how much time we have left.”

“I want to know why you did it.”

Bran sighed, letting his hand sink again. “I can't tell you that.”

“I need to know if Stark's right with his assumptions”, Barton said, not minding him. “Because if he is, I can't kill you.”

Bran hummed. “That would be a pity.”

Barton didn't reply. He just looked at him, his jaw clenched and his eyes angry. Bran half expected him to follow through with his threat. He could see the device on the wall next to the door; when Barton wanted to type his code into it, he would need to bring quite a bit of distance between himself and the glass. Bran was indeed unarmed – they had taken the small dagger he always carried from him before he'd entered the cell – and even though he was sure that he could beat Barton in close combat, he didn't have a chance against the bow or the gun. When Barton wasn't close enough to reach when he lifted the glass, he would certainly use one of his weapons, and Bran was sure that the Agent was a good shot.

So, when Barton chose to kill him now, Bran would very likely die.

“I do not remember you”, Bran said after a few moments of silence. “I don't remember what I did, either. As far as I know, I am nothing else than a Norwegian linguist who made a rather bad job decision.”

“You know a lot more than that.”

Bran lifted his shoulders, smirking. “Nothing of importance. At least not to you.”

Barton stared at him for a while longer. “No one of us would hesitate to kill you, you know. Not even Stark.”

“I'm sure about that”, Bran said. His smirk turned into a grin. “I must have done truly terrible things.”

If possible, Barton's expression darkened even more, but before he could reply, an all too familiar voice sounded from the ceiling.

“ _Play-date's over, kids. Clint, get out of there._ ”

Without another word, Barton turned around and walked away.

“It was nice to meet you, Agent Barton”, Bran called after him, and the agent flipped him off before he disappeared behind the door.

“ _Hey, Bambi_ ”, came Stark's voice again. “ _You doing okay?_ ”

“More than”, Bran answered. “But do hurry, please.”

Stark didn't reply, and Bran assumed that SHIELD had regained control over their cameras and speakers. Bran returned to his earlier place at the other end of the cell and sat down again. He was already lost in thoughts; not really pondering over his conversation with Barton, but over his own reactions to the man.

No dizziness. No nausea. His thoughts had stayed clear and unaffected the whole time, without a single sign of the blurriness that usually appeared every time he thought about who he was and what he had done. He'd noticed that in the plane already, and then it had become rather obvious when they had faced Fury and the others. Bran remembered _passing out_ because he'd seen their pictures in the internet. And seeing them had made him feel sick, yes, but that had been more down to nervousness and anger than whatever barricade had been in his mind. He could tell the difference.

He hadn't exactly hoped that Barton would tell him anything. But he'd still learned a little, and maybe that could be of use later on. Now the only thing he could do was wait for Thor, who might make SHIELD regret that they had thrown Bran into a cell. They had promised to leave him with Stark, after all.

Bran's gaze wandered to the cameras. He didn't doubt that Stark was still watching. It seemed that he had hacked SHIELD, and so at least JARVIS would always have an eye on what happened in Bran's cell.

And that meant that that wall of glass wouldn't open for anyone who wanted to kill him.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is horribly short, just like the last one. But I had to set the cut here, otherwise it would've been much too long. I hope you don't mind!  
> Thank you so much for your lovely comments! 400 now!! That' crazy. I'm honestly stunned that people are actually still reading this; I didn't even expect to make it to almost twenty chapters when I started to write this. Reading your thoughts makes me incredibly happy, and I hope you'll keep enjoying this story!!

Bran didn't like thunder. Had never liked it, as far as he knew. When he'd still been in Norway, in that little cabin of his, he'd had to make it through quite a few thunderstorms. He'd always turned some music so loud that he'd feared to go deaf and curled up in bed, flinching every time he'd heard the thunder regardless. And in Sweden, where it had been stormy outside quite a few times, he'd either buried himself in their work or allowed himself to be distracted by Stark, who had had always seemed to notice that storms set Bran on edge. He couldn't even say what about them bothered him so much. He just knew that there was barely anything worse than seeing a lightning and then _waiting_ for what was bound to come.

In his cell, Bran couldn't see any lightnings. And he still hated thunder. But still, when it arose from nothingness, so loud that he believed the walls were shaking, he couldn't keep from grinning.

It didn't take long, after that. The thunder ceased after a few minutes, and then he spent a few more minutes in silence. He didn't pay attention to the ringing in his ears, ignored his headache and clenching stomach and stood up, eyes fixed on the door at the other side of the glass.

And waited.

The door opened, and Stark stepped into the cell. He took off a ridiculously colored pair of sunglasses and put them into his pocket, his eyes immediately searching Bran's. He wasn't grinning. Bran assumed he was still angry, and Stark confirmed that with his next words.

“Okay, just so you know – I toyed with the idea to let you rot here a little longer.”

And what to say to that? Bran knew that he needed Stark. And if he decided to be Bran's opponent rather than his ally in this game they were playing, Bran would be in serious trouble.

“I'm sorry”, he offered, watching as Stark approached the glass.

“Don't lie to me”, the other man all but spat. “To everyone else, I don't care, but not to _me_.” He pointed at the exit behind him. “I'm the only one standing between you and that fucking door. If I decide to leave you here, you're going to stay here.”

Bran quirked a brow. “What about Thor?”

“He'd be pretty easily convinced. You're not the only one who can manipulate people, Green Eyes.”

“I'm aware”, Bran said, forcing his tone to sound light. He inclined his head. “So, now that you are here and obviously still angry with me, what would you like me to say?”

Stark crossed his arms. “You could start with an explanation. Because, you know, I've still no idea what you're planning.”

“No? Forgive me, I thought you knew.”

“Yeah, really not helping your case here, Rock of Ages. You know, if you _wanted_ to be imprisoned by SHIELD to, well, whatever you wanted to achieve with this, you could have just _told me_. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“I hadn't planned this, Stark. It was a spontaneous decision.”

“A spontaneous – didn't I _just_ tell you not to lie to me? And didn't we have that little conversation before we left Sweden?” Stark stared at him, and Bran realized that he wasn't just angry – he was _hurt._ He wanted to say something, but Stark didn't give him the chance. “About trusting each other, or at least trying to. And what do you do? You run off to the next best people who are goddamn _dying_ to hurt or torture or kill you without me having _any_ idea what you're doing. ”

“I don't think this is the best place to discuss this.”

“I don't think that fucking matters”, Stark shot back, imitating Bran's tone. “I want to know what you're up to. I _need_ to know what you're up to. What would I've done if SHIELD had managed to drag you away to some place I couldn't reach, huh? What would _you_ have done? I can only do so much to protect a goddamn _war criminal_. You can't just do things like this and expect that I'll come and save your sorry ass.”

“Lift the glass”, was all Bran said in response.

Stark stared at him. “Did you even listen to me?”

“Of course. Lift the glass.”

“The hell I -”

“Stark. Please.”

Stark paused, his expression slowly changing from furious to confused. Bran waited, doing his best to hide the nervousness that had started bubbling in his chest. He could positively watch as Stark made his decision. The inventor pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing, but in the end he gave in.

“JARVIS”, he said, still holding Bran's gaze.

Bran watched as the glass was lifted, and then looked at Stark again as soon as there wasn't anything between them.

“Great”, Stark said. “And what -”

Bran took a step forward and embraced the smaller man.

Stark immediately stilled, even stopped breathing as far as Bran could tell. His whole body was tense and his arms stayed pressed to his sides, but he didn't pull away.

“What are you doing?”, came Stark's slightly muffled voice, sounding absolutely stunned.

“I believe this is called a hug.”

Silence, for a moment. Stark shifted in his arms – Bran could feel the scruff of his goatee through his shirt – until his face was no longer pressed against Bran's shoulder. He still made no move to push Bran away.

“Yeah, but - ehm. Why?”

 _I'm thankful. I'm sorry. I needed to touch you. I_ missed _you. I –_ the list went on and on, but all Bran said was, “I wanted to.”

Again, Stark didn't say anything for a few moments. “I'm still pissed”, he warned then, just as his hands came up to hug Bran in return.

Bran let out a relieved breath, hesitantly resting his chin on top of the smaller man's head. Surprisingly soft hair tickled his skin. Bran wanted to pull Stark closer, but didn't quite dare to. His fingers twitched where they rested on his back, tentatively grasping the expensive feeling suit jacket. Stark felt that, apparently, because he obeyed Bran's unspoken wish and hugged him closer - or maybe he did it because he himself wished to, was an even better (unbeliavable) thought. Bran closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of Stark's body seeping through their clothes, his breath through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he wanted _more if it_. Of everything. (He didn't remember the last time he'd been hugged.)

“Okay”, Stark murmured after a while. “We should get you out of here.”

Immediately, Bran let his arms fall and took a step back. “Of course.”

Stark huffed, an amused (and confused) look in his eyes. He nodded towards the exit, and Bran followed him out of the cell.

 

It was night. That Bran realized ten minutes later, when they left the building and made their way Stark's car. It was a different one than the car they had driven in Sweden, but it looked just as fast. No one had even tried to hold them back. A few agents had watched them leave, but they hadn't talked to them and Stark had just ignored them. Only know Bran realized that his legs felt a little weak, but apart from that he was fine.

“Here”, Stark said just when Bran wanted to sit down on the passenger seat. A bag had been waiting for him there, and Stark had taken it and handed it to him as soon as Bran had closed the door. “There's water and food.”

“Fastfood”, Bran said dryly, wrinkling his nose.

“Don't complain, Princess.”

“I wouldn't dare.” Bran emptied one of the water bottles in one gulp, and then unwrapped what turned out to be a burger. He took a hearty bite and held his tongue when he wanted to complain about the taste.

“You okay?”, Stark asked, glancing over to him. “Need anything else?”

“A toilet.”

Stark laughed, and Bran found himself smiling at the sound.

“Can you hold it until we're at the tower or do I need to pull over?”, Stark asked, still grinning.

Bran rolled his eyes and finished his burger. Stark apparently trusted him to not make a mess of his car and did not pull over. Bran was actually quite glad that he hadn't drunk or eaten anything before they had left Sweden and during the time in the cell.

“How long?”, he asked while fishing a package of fries out of the bag.

“Six days”, Stark answered. “I had to wait for Thor. And then Clint wanted to speak to you, and I guessed that was why you did the whole thing in the first place.”

Bran hummed. “Would his code have worked?”

“Of course not”, Stark said at once, snorting.

Bran smirked and looked out of the window while he ate. New York. He was in New York again, even though he had promised himself to never come back. Seeing the skyline of the city again made him anxious.

“I didn't lie”, he said after a while, mostly to distract himself. Stark looked at him briefly, and he added, “it _was_ a spontaneous decision.”

Stark sighed. “Okay. I believe that. I still want to know why you did it, though.”

Bran hesitated, licking his lips. “I needed to test something.”

“And?”

Bran looked out of the window again. “I believe my magical blinders are gone.”

Stark stayed silent. After a few moments Bran looked at him again, and when he saw the inventor's expression he let his half empty bag of fries sink into his lap again. “You knew that.”

Stark didn't even glance at him. “I found out a few hours ago”, he said, his tone odd. “I mean, I could guess that something changed before that. You were too unaffected by our little welcome party.”

“You _found out_ ”, Bran repeated, eyes still searching Stark's face. “Who told you?”

Stark sighed. “Can we – I mean, let's speak about that at the tower, okay? I'll tell you everything as soon as I'm not behind the wheel of my favorite car anymore.”

Bran narrowed his eyes. He knew Stark rather well by now, and he hadn't seen him like this often – Stark was _nervous._ It was obvious in the way he avoided meeting Bran's eyes. And maybe it was even more than nervousness, because Stark wasn't grinning in that cocky, provocative way of his, like he usually did to hide his agitation, and his fingers weren't tapping some kind of rhythm, either. Instead, they were clenched around the wheel, rigid and tense like the rest of his body. Surely the (admittedly uncalled for, probably ridiculous, definitely _wonderful_ ) hug wasn't the only cause for that, was it?

“Fine”, Bran eventually conceded, and he could positively watch as Stark forced himself to relax. There was something seething here. Nervous anticipation made his skin itch, but he agreed with Stark that this wasn't the best place to talk about things like this. He continued eating and spoke up again after a few minutes. “Your favorite car?”

Stark's grin returned, bright and disgustingly self-assured, just like Bran remembered. It made him smirk in return.

“The fastest”, Stark said, his tone lighter again. “You'd probably enjoy the hell out of this baby.”

Bran hummed. “Only if you let me drive.”

The engineer made a sound close to a whine. “But this is my _favorite_ car.”

“So?”

“You're a terrible driver.”

“I am most definitely not.”

“You almost let us crash eleven times”, Stark countered, throwing a look at him. “I counted.”

“Yes, _almost_. And you had fun.”

“I wish I could argue against that.”

Bran's smirk widened into a smile, but he didn't say anything else. This was going much better than he had expected. Yes, there was still a hint of suspicion and anger in Stark's eyes when he looked at him, and this bickering might be a bit forced, but still. Bran had spent six days in a cell with only his own thoughts to keep him company, and the few minutes he'd talked to Barton could hardly be compared to _this._

“It's Tony, by the way”, Stark said after a while, causing Bran too look at him again. The man glanced at him, and in reaction to Bran's raised brow he added, “not Anthony. Clint knows that no one calls me that.”

Bran smirked. “Well, perhaps I am the only one allowed to call you that.”

Stark snorted. “Yeah, right. If you want to freak people out, calling me Anthony probably is a good way to do that.” He threw an unusually thoughtful look in Bran's direction. “I'd still like you to call me Tony, though. When no one's there to listen.”

Bran wrinkled his nose. “ _Tony_ is the name of a boy.”

“And _Anthony_ is the name of an old man.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Okay, that was a low blow right there”, Stark said, making a face. “I'm so not gonna let you drive this car.”

Bran looked at him for a moment. “I guess that's a price I'll have to pay”, he said then, “Anthony.”

“I should've left you in that cell”, the other man replied, but Bran was sure that he could see a smile tugging at his lips.

“Don't be ridiculous”, Bran said, smiling as well as he turned his head towards the window again. “You wouldn't have left me in a place like that.”

“No”, Anthony agreed, his tone quiet, but neither offended nor surprised. “Never.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT THEM. We're getting there, folks. There'll be more hugs in the future. Among other things. Ahem.  
> (Enjoy this tiny bit of fluff while it lasts, by the way.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna leave this here. Enjoy! xD

The light mood left Bran as soon as his new prison came into sight. He remembered the day he stepped out of the subway and walked up the stairs of that station – that one right over there; his eyes stayed fixed on the sign as they drove past it. He even remembered that little girl, with her big brown eyes and the purple backpack on her knees, even though he was sure that he'd forgotten her before. _Recognition_. Recognition in her eyes, in Pepper Potts' eyes, in Stark's eyes.

Stark, who had become _Anthony_ in the split of a second – a second that had stretched over several months. Four, in fact. Now, almost five months had passed since Bran had entered the tower for the first time, and actually he could imagine several better things than setting another foot into that building. He still followed Anthony when he led the way through the lobby, flashing grins at everyone who greeted him. They passed the reception, and Bran noticed that the young woman who had greeted him back then was sitting behind the counter. She'd probably forgotten that she had ever talked to him by now.

They were greeted by JARVIS when they stepped into Anthony's private elevator, which _thankfully_ brought them up, not down. Bran wasn't sure whether Anthony knew of his aversion for being underground, but he wouldn't be surprised if he did. He hadn't always been able to mask his unease in their labs in Sweden, and Anthony was far too perceptive. But it didn't matter if he'd done it knowingly or not; Bran felt a rush of relief when he saw that his new cell had _windows_ either way. Broad ones, even, letting as much light in as possible. And granted, calling his accommodation a cell really didn't do it – or Anthony – justice. It seemed to be a whole apartment, not nearly as cramped as the one he'd lived in before he had applied for this job. The room design was open and appealing, the furniture not as modern as the rest of the tower, but clearly expensive. The dark, very nicely wrought wood of the dining table matched the shelves that were already partly filled with books. There was a lot of green – the art on the walls, the sofa and the armchair next to it, the stools at the kitchen bar. The color went well with the black cabinets. All in all, it was something he would have chosen for himself, and that extended to the smallest details like that clearly old phonograph, or even the kettle he could see in the kitchen. He was certain that he would find his favorite teas somewhere in the cabinets.

“You like it?”, Anthony asked while Bran was still looking around. “You can change whatever you want, just tell JARVIS and he'll get it done.”

“There won't be any need for that”, Bran replied easily. “This is... very nice. Did you pick these things?”

Anthony shrugged. “Most of it, yeah. It's been ready for ages, but I changed a few things during the last weeks.”

“I see.”

Bran couldn't help but be a little bit irked by the thought that Anthony had intended for Bran to come and stay here for _weeks_ already, even though he'd suspected that the billionaire had been preparing for this. But he wasn't in the mood to be truly irritated; it was too obvious that Anthony wanted him to be as comfortable as possible. And, really, there were much worse prisons than this.

“Your suitcase is in the bedroom”, Anthony said, pointing in the respective direction. “Made sure no one touched it. I got you a laptop as promised and also a new phone, the rest of your stuff is already in my workshop. JARVIS can show you the way. Uhm, you can also order stuff if you want, like more clothes or anything. Whatever you want. Well, okay, maybe don't try to buy any nuclear weapons.”

“What about the components I need to build a bomb?”

“Could work, but only with big enough gaps between the orders. J's a perceptive little AI, you know.”

“I shall keep it in mind”, Bran drawled, returning the other man's grin for a second. “What else am I allowed to do?”

Anthony sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “In here, you can do pretty much whatever you want. But you can't leave the tower. You can come up to my lab any time, though, and to my penthouse whenever I'm there. JARVIS has complete control over your exit and the elevators. And the windows are pretty much unbreakable.”

Bran smirked, eyes flickering to the generous view of the city. “I wouldn't survive fleeing out of one of them anyway, I think.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised.”

Bran hummed. “Anything else I should know?”

“You're not a prisoner here, okay?”, Anthony said immediately. Bran arched a brow, causing Anthony to make a face. “Yeah, fine, maybe it looks like it.But we aren't prisoner and jailer, you and me.”

“Oh? And what are we instead?”

“Allies?”, Anthony suggested. His grin was crooked and brief, not even lasting long enough to reach his eyes. “I mean, that's a term I could work with. I'd be okay with friends too, though.”

“An hour ago you contemplated leaving me in an actual cell.”

“What can I say, I'm not the type for conflict-free friendships. Just not my thing.”

“That's a rather good condition for this to work, I think”, Bran said, grinning when Anthony laughed. Sadly, he sobered quickly enough.

“So, er... We should probably talk about... stuff.”

“Yes, we should”, Bran agreed. “But I would like to take a shower first.”

“And pee?”

“And pee”, Bran repeated, rolling his eyes at Anthony's teasing tone. “I won't take long. Make yourself useful in the meantime, would you?”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please. And food.”

“As you wish, Princess.”

And so they parted, Anthony making his way to the kitchen while Bran went to find the bathroom. The bedroom was right next to it and turned out to be just as nice as the rest of the apartment, and only when he saw the all too inviting bed Bran realized how tired he was. No wonder, he'd barely slept the last week. Sighing, he took fresh clothes out of his suitcase and then went back to the bathroom. He eyed the large tub for a moment before deciding against it – he honestly feared he'd fall asleep in there – and stepped into the big shower instead. The warm water was heavenly, and feeling clean again was even better. He could have stood there for hours.

Bran didn't know what exactly had happened during his time at SHIELD, but it wasn't hard to guess that they were _so close_ to resolve the mystery that was Bran himself. Well, of course he was no mystery to Anthony or any of the others, but he certainly was one to himself. Maybe the thought of finally knowing should set him on edge – it definitely had, in the past – but somehow he only felt oddly calm at the moment. He suspected it was a calm that could turn into madness in the blink of an eye, but he refused to be bothered by that. It was much easier to handle than any alternative.

His hair was still damp when he returned to the living room. Anthony was sitting on the sofa, a cardboard box with takeout already in his hands. Bran joined him, smiling at the steaming cup of tea next to his dinner. He thanked Anthony, who just smiled at him in responsive, and began shoveling food into his mouth. It was much better than the burger and fries he'd eaten in the car, and for a while he was content with eating and drinking the tea Anthony made for him – which was surprisingly good as well; Bran knew that Anthony didn't care much for tea.

“You okay?”, Anthony asked after a while, causing Bran to look at him.

“Better”, he answered. “I'll be fine. Tell me what happened.”

Anthony sighed, poking around in his food. “Well, actually there wasn't much going on the last week. Lots of discussions with SHIELD. Fury proved that he's an even bigger asshole than I thought.”

Bran smirked. “Did you try to bail me out?”

“No.” Anthony snorted. “ I was goddamn angry – still am, by the way – but I could guess that you had a plan or something.”

Bran hummed.

“God, please tell me you had a plan.”

“I told you, it was all very spontaneous. I was sure you would -”

“Yeah, no”, Anthony interrupted him. “ _I_ told _you_ that you can't just rely on me coming and saving your ass. That's not a plan, that's fucking stupid.”

Bran sighed. “Yes, you made that quite clear already. But we agreed to trust each other, didn't we? I _knew_ that you wouldn't leave me there, and you didn't.”

“Yes, but -”

“Could we stop arguing about this? You were just telling me what happened.”

“I'm not arguing.”

“Of course not.”

Anthony threw a piercing look in Bran's direction, but then he let out a truly tragic sigh and let the topic go. “Like I said, I _assumed_ you had a plan. I kept an eye on you, tried to get you something to eat and drink, but they wouldn't let that happen. Assholes, really. On Monday, Clint came to me.” He glanced at Bran and explained, “today's Thursday. He wanted to speak to you, and given that you two seemed to have a little thing going on on the landing field, I thought you wanted that, too.”

“I did.”

Anthony nodded. “So I helped him, cue more discussions with SHIELD. They could guess I had something to do with it, but I'd taken care that they couldn't prove anything. Then, a few hours ago, Thor showed up.” Anthony chuckled. “He flipped out. Spectacularly. Nearly destroyed SHIELD's base. He and his – his people, they're pretty fed up with SHIELD now.”

“Oh, really?”

“Wait”, Anthony said, frowning at him. “Was _that_ your plan?”

Bran shrugged. “It is certainly a positive side effect, wouldn't you say? Fury should leave us alone now, at least for a while.”

“You're aware they could've killed you, yes?”

“They wouldn't have.”

Anthony stared at him, slowly shaking his head. “Why do I feel like _I_ am the responsible one of us two? That's never happened before.”

“A nice change, isn't it? Are you going to eat that?”

Anthony glanced down at his food and then handed Bran the box. “Here.”

“Thank you. Tell me more about Thor.”

Anthony sighed. “Well, he threw a tantrum, and Fury quickly gave in. We discussed what's going to happen now, and then I picked you up.”

“And what is going to happen now?”

Anthony didn't reply at first, only when Bran looked at him expectantly. He spoke slowly, watching Bran closely as if wary of his reaction. “The promise I made is still in working order, so I... I can't tell you everything I'd like you to know. Not yet. It's – well, it's possible that it'll be lifted. Soon. Tomorrow, maybe.”

Bran let his fork sink. “How?”

Anthony hesitated. “Thor didn't come alone”, he finally said.

“Who is with him?”

“You'll meet them tomorrow. They want to talk to you, as soon as you've had a little rest.”

“And then?”, Bran asked, narrowed eyes fixed on the other man's face.

“I'm not sure”, Anthony admitted, lifting his shoulders. “They didn't tell me everything. I just know that your, uhm... that _it_ has started to crumble. The barriers in your head are breaking down.”

“Do they want to rebuild them?”

“I think they....”, Anthony hesitated, “I think they're not sure if they can. Maybe they'll try.”

 _The barriers in your head are breaking down._ Bran repeated the sentence in his thoughts, realizing that it didn't tell him anything new. He'd known that already – known it from the second he'd looked into Barton's eyes and hadn't felt that _something_ tear at the edges of his mind. It wasn't like he remembered anything – no, his memories were as blurry as they had always been. But it was as if whatever had been designed to keep him from figuring himself out wasn't there anymore. Maybe that was why he felt so calm, too. There barely had been any moments in which he hadn't been aware of the fuzziness in his own thoughts, and now his head was _clear._ He could think about Thor without feeling dizzy. He could speak to Barton without passing out. He could even guess who Thor had brought with him, at least vaguely, and it didn't make him sick.

It just made him angry.

He smiled faintly and looked at Anthony again. “Will you be there?”

The inventor blinked at him. “If you want me to?” Bran nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good”, Bran said, and continued to eat.

“Thor's already convinced that you should get your memories back”, Anthony said, almost tentatively. “And actually I think that's the most likely outcome.”

Bran nodded slowly. “So they can pull up the barriers anew.”

“Or throw you in another cell”, Anthony added in a tone that would have been cheerful, if it hadn't been for the grim pull at his mouth.

“Well, you did call me a war criminal”, Bran murmured, and immediately felt Anthony tense next to him. “Someone like that would deserve a cell, I think, and worse.”

“People deserve a lot of things”, was all Anthony said to that.

They lapsed into silence, then. Bran finished his – or rather Anthony's – dinner, and then closed his hands around the cup still waiting for him on the table. The tea had gotten cold by now, but Bran didn't really care. He drank it, anyway, and Anthony stayed right next to him. He'd pulled one leg up on the sofa and kept watching Bran, apparently only partly lost in thoughts. It didn't seem like he intended to leave anytime soon.

_Good._

Bran wondered what would happen if he indeed got his memories back. If he remembered who he was. Somehow, he doubted that Anthony would still look at him like he did now. They'd been enemies, that much was clear, and maybe they would be enemies again. Bran couldn't say who he would be when he wouldn't be Bran anymore. Maybe he wouldn't even change, but who knew? _I don't know how much of this is you_ , Anthony had said. It was all too clear that he wondered if Bran would change when he remembered, too. Would they still be allies, still be _friends_? The war criminal they had just spoken about wasn't Bran; he didn't remember committing such crimes. In a way, it was true what he'd told Barton – he wasn't much more than a Norwegian linguist, a writer, and even though that wasn't _him_ , not exactly, Bran knew that Anthony liked him. And maybe that would change, sooner than either of them wanted.

He looked at Anthony, who looked back at him, and made his decision in the split of a second.

“Are you sober?”, he asked.

Anthony frowned. “Yeah? Why?”

Bran set the empty cup on the sofa table and scooted over to Anthony. The man only had a short moment to understand what was going to happen before Bran's hand already grasped his worn thin shirt and pulled him close. Bran's mouth was on Anthony's only briefly, because the inventor gasped and immediately pulled back, hands coming up to Bran's shoulders. They stared at each other, their faces only inches away from each other.

Bran arched a brow. “No?”

Anthony swallowed visibly and licked his lips, the movement drawing Bran's eyes down to his mouth. “I'm not _entirely_ sure if we should be doing this.”

Bran met his eyes again. “Ah, I see. You really are the responsible one, aren't you?”

“You were in a cell for almost a week”, Anthony reminded him. His hands twitched a little where they were grasping Bran's shoulders, as if undecided whether to push him away or pull him close.

“Yes.”

“You don't even know who you are.”

“You do.” Slowly, a grin spread across Bran's face. “And I know that you want me.” He leaned in again, letting his breath brush over the other man's lips. His tone dropped even lower when he added, “So have me.”

Anthony stared at him for a moment, pupils already dilating, and then the look in his eyes became fierce. He uttered a curse, his grip on Bran's shoulders tightening before he drew him close again. Their mouths fit together perfectly, just like Bran had imagined. He might have let out a gasp on his own at the contact as he all but melted into it. He was still smiling into the kiss, at least until Anthony bit down on his lower lip. Bran hissed and broke away, eyes opening to look at Anthony. He was smirking at him, eyes glinting.

“I told you I'm still angry.”

Bran couldn't help it, he smiled – smiled at the hoarse note in Anthony's voice, the mischief in his eyes. He made a content sound and kissed him again, softer this time. He ignored the mild sting where Anthony had bitten him, or maybe he enjoyed it; anyway, it was _nice._ He broke the kiss too soon and positively purred his next words. “Let me make it up to you.”

Anthony grinned. His fingers brushed Bran's right collar bone, scraping a little over sensitive skin before his hand came to rest at back of his neck. Bran couldn't tell who bridged the gap between them this time, just that they were kissing again in the next second. Soon enough Anthony was nibbling at Bran's lip again, humming happily when he opened his mouth. After that, the kiss didn't stay soft and slow for very long. Instead, it found them both panting, lips moving against lips almost desperately, and Bran realized – only _now_ he realized how long and badly he'd been wanting this. Everything from Anthony's mouth against his to the sounds he made; all the breathless chuckles and barely stifled gasps, and the way his fingers clung to Bran's shirt and hair and tugged at both, and how he laboriously maneuvered his leg out of the way so they could press even closer against each other.

Being so close to another person was enough to make him dizzy. He didn't remember experiencing something like this, didn't know if he'd ever even been kissed, so that alone, the fact that someone was here, with him, seeing and touching and _wanting_ him, drove him nearly mad. But it wasn't just someone, it was Anthony Stark – _Tony_ – and knowing that made it impossible to grasp a single clear thought.

At some point, after what couldn't have been more than minutes even though it felt like hours, Anthony pushed him back, making him fall backwards on the sofa. Bran huffed a laugh and pulled the smaller man along until he landed on top of him, their limbs tangling.

It was a little bit of a haze, from there on. Bran barely knew what he was doing, only that he wanted and _needed_ , and wanted and needed _everything_ and _now._ Anthony seemed to be in a similar condition, though; his movements just as impatient and frantic as Bran's, his kisses just as messy _._ It was him who somehow managed to reach between their bodies, and who cursed when he couldn't open both zippers at the same time. Bran almost choked on his laugh when a hand sneaked past his underwear, wrapping firmly around him while Anthony started kissing him again. Bran arched into the touch and moved to return it, swallowing every moan he could get out of Anthony.

It was over almost embarrassingly quickly, but since Anthony didn't seem to mind, Bran also refused to be bothered by that. They came back to themselves only slowly, both struggling for air, but even when they'd already stopped panting they stayed as they were. Well, they both shifted a little to lie a little bit more comfortably, but Anthony made no move to climb off again. Instead, he buried his face in Bran's shoulder, giving a content hum when one of Bran's hands came up to run his fingers through his hair.

He couldn't get enough of touching the other man, to feel that he was actually, truly _there._ He hadn't felt something like this in far too long, couldn't say if he'd ever even been so lucky at all. There was no one in his memories – no man, no woman, _no one_ he remembered touching like this. And now that he'd gotten a taste of it, he craved more. But for now, he only felt blissfully sated, almost content for the first time in ages. The warmth of Anthony's body on top of him positively seeped into his skin, making it all too easy to close his eyes and just be there, without thinking about anything.

“We should at least try to get undressed next time”, Anthony said after some time, his voice a bit muffled by Bran's shirt.

Bran blinked an eye open to peak down at him. “What makes you think there will be a next time?”

Anthony pinched his side. “Asshole.”

Bran just hummed affirmatively and closed both eyes again, smiling.

This was good. Perfect, even. If this was to be one of the last things he'd done while still being Bran, if being Bran _allowed_ him to do this – then it made him wonder if being him might not be that bad, after all.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another extra chapter! Please [read it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16737613) after chapter 20. It's sort of plot relevant! ^.^

The next morning found Bran in the kitchen – his kitchen – and rummaging the cabinets for something to eat. Anthony had apparently seen to the kitchen being stocked; Bran found enough food for at least a week. It was the first time in ages that he actually felt like eating, and he wasn't even famished. He eventually decided to make scrambled eggs, yawning a little as he shoved them around in the pan.

“ _Mr. Himinson, Mr. Stark asks for permission to enter your rooms._ ”

Bran hummed. “Yes, let him in.”

He looked over his shoulder when he heard Anthony come in shortly after and watched as the man approached him. Anthony put on a grin as soon as their eyes locked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

“I've never expected to see you cooking”, Anthony said as he hopped onto the counter.

“I'm not particularly good at it”, Bran admitted, turning to the stove again. “But I do have to feed myself, sometimes.”

“You could have ordered something. JARVIS can -”

“I am able to care for myself, Anthony, thank you very much.”

Anthony didn't say anything for a moment. When he did, he sounded oddly hesitant. “You're angry.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. I know I messed up, I -”

“You didn't mess up”, Bran interrupted him. He frowned at the eggs, poking them with the spatula. “It's merely not very hard to figure out why you can't bear to sleep next to me.”

“No, that's not – I mean, we are -”

“You don't have to explain.” Bran took two plates out of the cabinet and shoveled eggs on each of them. “I will find out myself soon enough, I think.”

When he turned around to give Anthony one of the plates, he found the inventor looking at him with poorly hidden frustration on his face. He took the plate, though, and followed suit when Bran sat down at the kitchen table.

“I'm not that hungry, actually”, Anthony said.

“You look horrible.”

“Yeah, but that's because I didn't sleep, not because I'm hungry.”

“I _will_ get angry if you don't eat the eggs I specifically made for both of us.”

Anthony rolled his eyes and shoved the first fork load of eggs into his mouth. “Happy now?”

“Don't speak with your mouth full.”

“Okay, now you're stretching it”, Anthony said after swallowing, sounding a little bit annoyed.

He was smiling, though.

 

“What exactly happens now?”, Bran asked later, when they stepped into the elevator.

“Well, we're riding up to my floor”, Anthony answered as the door slid close, “where they're probably already waiting for us. And then we'll talk, I guess. It'll be fun.”

“Oh, I'm sure of that.”

He watched the other man, who didn't seem nervous or frustrated anymore. There was that look in his eyes Bran had seen a few times before, determined and confident. The hard line of Anthony's mouth told of his anger, and everything about it made Bran smile.

The elevator stopped, but the door didn't open. Bran turned to quirk a brow at Anthony, whose reply consisted in grasping Bran's dress shirt and pulling him down for a kiss.

Bran was surprised for only a moment – he hadn't expected kisses after what had happened last night, honestly. But he still kissed back, hands coming up to cradle Anthony's jaw. This kiss was softer than the ones they'd shared the night before, nothing more than lips against lips for a few seconds. When they parted, Bran met Anthony's unusually serious expression with raised brows.

“Was that a goodbye kiss?”

Anthony's eyes softened a little when he gave a cocky grin. “No, that was a 'let's kick some ass' kiss.”

“Do you think that will be necessary?”

Anthony just shrugged. He loosened his grip and smoothed out Bran's shirt before he took a step back. “We're ready, J.”

The door opened at Anthony's command, and together they entered what turned out to be the penthouse of the tower. Bran could guess why Anthony had chosen this for his floor; the view was breathtaking. Sadly, he didn't have much time to appreciate it, because Anthony was already leading the way to the kitchen, where Bran was at once distracted by the two people sitting at the table. They stood up as soon as they noticed them, and Bran felt his blood run cold.

The man was Thor, obviously. Bran recognized him immediately, even though he looked different than when they'd talked at CSN. His blond hair was open now, falling down to his shoulders, and he was wearing odd clothes that looked, although not like the armor Bran had seen in pictures, like they definitely weren't from Earth. Thor looked directly at him, with an unreadable expression on his face, but Bran barely paid attention to him.

The woman was already approaching him, and Bran had to force himself to stay where he was instead of backing away. She seemed to notice that, however, because she stopped in her tracks, still a few steps away from him. She wasn't smiling, and the look in her eyes was slightly wary, though not unfriendly.

“So, er...”, Anthony broke the loaded silence, “would anyone like a drink? Or coffee? I'm thinking coffee.”

“No, thank you”, Thor said politely, without taking his eyes off Bran.

Bran and the woman both shook their head no, and Anthony sighed. “Can we at least sit down or do we have to do this standing?”

“We should sit down, I think”, the woman said, yanking her eyes away from Barn to look at Anthony with a gentle smile. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. If you don't mind, we would like some privacy now.”

Anthony gave her one of his most charming grins. “Oh, no. I'm staying right where I am.”

The smile fell away, replaced by a slight frown. “That was not a -”

“He stays”, Bran interrupted her, holding her gaze when it snapped back to him.

“Are you sure?”, she asked, the look in her eyes turning sad, suddenly.

Bran stared right back at her, even though he felt his whole body tense up. “Yes, I am.”

“Very well.” She sat down again, her eyes following Anthony as he walked over to the coffee machine.

Soon they all sat there together; Anthony and Bran at one side of the table, Thor and the woman at the other. Bran was still staring at the woman, at the strange gown she was wearing and her golden hair, at her blue eyes.

He wondered if seeing her should make him feel anything.

She placed her arms on the table, as if wanting to reach out for him and not quite daring to. Bran's eyes flickered down to her folded hands and back to her face; the mere thought of touching her making him want to recoil. He had put his hands on the table in a somewhat similar manner, though, and he was too proud to withdraw them now.

“It's good to see you again”, she told him, her voice quiet and far too gentle. “Even though you do not remember me.” She waited for Bran to say something, but when he stayed silent, she sighed and added, “if I am honest, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.”

“I think an introduction would be good to begin with”, Bran said. She hesitated, and he watched her with his jaw set.

“I am Frigga”, she said eventually, smiling faintly again, “Queen of Asgard. Thor here is one of my sons.”

Bran's eyes darted to Thor, and he put on a smirk. “Oh, yes. We do know each other.” He looked back at the Queen. “I hope he is not the only spy Asgard has to offer. He is quite miserable at it.”

Thor laughed a little, and Frigga's smile didn't waver. “We are missing our best spy at the moment”, she said, “and yes, I agree that Thor's talents lie elsewhere.”

“You are the one who did this to me”, Bran said. “I want to know why.”

He'd expected to see at least mild surprise at the sudden change of topic, but Frigga didn't even bat an eye. “I know you do”, she replied softly. “And I am here to explain. But telling you everything at once could be damaging, so I would ask you to be patient.”

“He's damaged already, anyway”, Anthony spoke up. He'd been so quiet the whole time that Bran had almost forgotten he was there. He stared at Frigga with unhidden anger in his eyes. “What's the problem with a little more? I'm sure he can take it.”

Frigga looked at him, unimpressed. “You should know better than to mock me.”

“Oh, I'm not mocking you.” Anthony's smile was sweet and cruel. “I'm calling bullshit. It's a bit late to pretend you worry about him, don't you think?”

“You are a feisty one, aren't you?”

“Apparently not feisty enough if you've only just noticed that.”

“Are you done?”, Bran asked before Frigga got a chance to say something. He gritted his teeth and glared at her. “I'd very much like you to get to the point, now.”

Frigga looked at him for a long moment, hesitating. “Is there anything you already know?”, she asked then.

Bran snorted, his nails digging into his thighs where no one could see. “Oh, yes. I know that the memories I have aren't real, and that I was given them to make me pay for crimes I don't remember committing.”

“That is not the whole truth”, Frigga said immediately, and her hands reached out to touch his. He immediately pulled back; her touching him was nothing he could stand right now. For a brief moment, hurt flashed across her face, but she quickly schooled it into a composed expression.

It reminded him of himself. He _did_ that, too. He could smooth out his features like that, exactly like that, and the smile she was just putting on was like his, too.

That sudden familiarity rendered him speechless, and all at once he felt dizzy and nauseous again. His vision blurred, but only for a moment – he blinked a few times until his sight focused again, and nausea abated as quickly as it had come over him.

Frigga had watched, and he could see that she was able to tell what was going on in side of him, and it made him want to squirm on his chair or, better yet, flee the room.

“This was not designed as punishment”, Frigga told him, her voice warm and sad. “I know it must seem that way to you, but you can believe me when I say that this is not what I wanted.”

Bran averted his eyes, looking at the table instead of at her. His nails dug into his thighs where no one could see. Stark shifted next to him, and for the split of a second he felt a leg being pressed against his under the table. He had to close his eyes for a moment.

“I don't have a single reason to believe that”, he said when he opened them again, forcing his voice to stay even. “I do not know you.” He glanced at Thor. “Either of you.”

“Not knowing someone and not remembering someone are two vastly different things, yndið mitt”, Frigga said gently.

Bran wanted nothing more than to spat something at her, but he couldn't get the words out. He just stared at her for a while, and she stared back, and he forgot that Anthony and Thor were even there.

“Why are _you_ here?”, he asked eventually. There was a tremble in his voice that he couldn't keep in check. “What has the Queen of Asgard to do with all of this?”

“I'm not here as the Queen”, she said. Anthony snorted, and Frigga threw a sharp glance in his direction. “Not merely, at least.”

“That does not answer my question”, Bran snarled, not able to keep his voice and face composed anymore. “I am tired of hearing half-truths and evasions. You are here to explain, you say; then _explain._ ”

“Very well.” Frigga's eyes had clouded, and she slowly leaned back in her chair. “It was indeed I who took your memories from you, but not to make you suffer. My husband demanded a much heavier punishment, and it was myself and Thor who convinced him otherwise.” She made a pause before she continued, “I devised a spell to alter your memories in a way that would make it possible for you to live here, on Midgard, as a human. I wanted this to be a chance for you. You should have been able to live in peace, to form bonds with other humans and to _grow_ , but the spell has never worked as I intended.”

His eyes searched her face, and he found that he couldn't not believe her. His voice was barely audible when he asked, “why?”

“I don't think I made a mistake while casting the spell”, she answered carefully. “As far as I can tell it is your magic that -”

“No”, he cut her off. “ _Why_ did you _do_ it?”

She held his gaze, didn't even flinch at his sharp tone. “One thing at a time, elskling. I'm afraid it could be too much if -”

“Do not call me that”, Bran said, the words more a gasp than anything else. Her expression turned pained again, and this time she didn't manage to conceal it. He had to look away.

This was already too much. Bran felt as if his skin was tightening around him, making it hard to breathe and think and _be_ – making it the most unbearable thing to be in this room with these people at this very moment. If he'd been able to move, he might have actually run away. He wasn't even able to stand up from his chair, though, and so he just sat there and didn't breathe even though _norns, he should breathe_ and eventually closed his eyes because he couldn't stand seeing anymore.

“Hey”, someone said, a warm hand touching his shoulder, “hey, Bambi. Breathe for me, okay?”

He drew a sharp breath, and the hand wandered from his shoulder to his back, where it started to move in slow, hesitant circles. Bran took another breath, and another and another, and after a moment his lungs remembered what to do with the air.

“You okay?”, Anthony asked, and Bran's sight focused on him and his worried eyes and knitted brows. “Need a break? We can -”

“No, I'm fine”, Bran told him, the words tumbling from his lips in a gasp.

He swallowed and waited until he regained full control over his breathing again, and relaxed his fingers that had clung to the fabric of his pants a little bit too vehemently. Embarrassment started creeping through his veins and heating his cheeks, but he ignored it and eventually forced himself to look at Frigga again. He didn't manage to hold her gaze as steadily as he wanted, his eyes skittering away every so often, but it was better than nothing.

Anthony's hand stayed on his back.

“I'm not human”, Bran said, and at least his voice was somewhat even again.

“No”, Frigga said quietly. She was staring at him, the pain in her eyes not hidden or vague anymore. “You are a Jotun, a Frost Giant, but you grew up as an Aesir.”

“A Jotun”, he repeated. His skin started to itch, and he absentmindedly scratched his left arm. “A _giant_?”

“You are unusually small”, Frigga explained. “There was a war between Asgard and Jotunheim, many hundred years ago. My husband found you after the war was won, left alone on the ice. He put a glamour on you to make you appear Aesir, and took you with him to Asgard.”

“Your husband.”

“Odin, the Allfather. He is -”

“I know who he is”, he interrupted her sharply. “I know who all of you are.”

Now he did stood up, his skin tingling too much for him to sit still anymore. He made a few steps away from the table, turning away from the others – the goddess and the god and the human – and tried to understand how any of this was _real._

“I just don't know who I am”, he murmured, and very nearly flinched when he heard another person stand up. It was Frigga, as it turned out; she stopped directly in front of him and forced him to stay were he was and look at her by gently, yet firmly grasping his shoulders.

“Your name, your true name”, she said, “is Loki. Your birth parents were Laufey and Farbauti, who were King and Queen of Jotunheim. You are the rightful heir to Jotunheim's throne and the second prince of Asgard. Because I raised you as my son, and you _are_ my son.”

Bran stared at her.

And stared.

And continued staring, until anger boiled over in his chest, hot and white and cruel.

“Your _son_ ”, he spat, and took a step back to free himself from her hands. “You took _everything_ from me, and you dare to call me -”

“Brother, please, we're not here to fight.”

The air was pressed out of his lungs. His eyes fixed on Thor, who had stood up as well and was now next to his mother with an equally careful and upset expression on his face and with his blue eyes, _her_ eyes, and his golden hair with that single black -

Bran tumbled away from the table, only just managing to vomit into the sink instead of on the floor. Anthony was next to him immediately, and Bran heard him say some words that sounded angry and hateful and couldn't possibly be directed at him because Anthony's hands were on his back again, warm and gentle. Bran gasped for breath as soon as he was done draining his stomach into the sink. His forehead fell to the worktop as he wheezed and panted, hands clenching around the edge of the counter.

“I want to know why”, he said – or thought he said; he wasn't actually sure if the almost whined words he heard were really _his._ And so he tried again after pulling a few shaky breaths, his voice still quivering when he gritted out, “I want to know why.”

“You'll know everything”, Anthony's voice promised him, “but sit down first, yeah? It's okay, just...”

Bran felt Anthony's hands first on his own, carefully loosening his grip, and then on his shoulders as he pushed him down and made him sit on the floor. Bran's head was spinning, so he buried his face in his hands and ignored the fact that he was trembling all over.

“I want to know why”, he said again, feeling as if those were the only words he knew.

“Okay”, Anthony said. He sounded a little breathless himself.

And suddenly the man's presence next to him was gone.

“Let me tell him”, Bran heard him say, his tone sharp and demanding.

“You?”, Frigga answered, sounding more thoughtful than anything else. “I don't think that is -”

“A good idea? Yeah, newsflash, your _Highness_ – he won't enjoy hearing this no matter who tells him. Okay? So let _me_ do it, goddammit. I want to.”

“You want to?”, the Queen repeated. “Tell me, is this you seeking revenge? Do you enjoy -”

“Oh no, _fuck_ no, you don't get to play that card at me. You think I'm enjoying this? Are you blind or something?”

“Mother, friend Tony isn't here because he seeks revenge”, Thor chimed in again, trying to soothe the waters. “I believe he genuinely wants to help.”

“He is using your brother, Thor. Nothing else.”

“Right, of course. If I remember correctly, it was _you_ who dragged me into this. And now you want to get rid off me? Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint, I'm not leaving him to you. You've messed him up enough already.”

“He doesn't need your protection, Mr. Stark.”

“Why, because he has you? Yeah, you've been doing a fantastic job, really.”

“I never wanted any of this to happen.”

“I don't give a _shit_ what you wanted. Whatever plan you had, it failed. Spectacularly. So now free me of my goddamn promise so I can tell him – or better yet, give him his memories back.”

“I cannot do that.”

Anthony answered something and they continued fighting, but Bran had stopped listening. He stared at them – Tony Stark and the Queen of Asgard, only inches away from each other; Anthony staring up at her as if he was about to spit poison and fire into her face.

Bran closed his eyes.

_Elskling._

He remembered his mother calling him that, like he remembered his father giving him driving lessons.

Not his mother. Not his father. He knew those memories weren't real, could _feel_ that they weren't. Now he finally knew whose memories should be in their place; now he had a name to call himself that was really, truly his own.

And found himself afraid to use it.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

Bran didn't feel that much anymore.

He couldn't say how it had happened or how long it had taken, just that the cascade of feelings crashing onto him had faded into numbness by now. His eyes were still closed, blocking out every light, and he knew that his chest was moving with even, though slightly rattling breaths. He knew that he was still sitting on the floor in Stark's kitchen, leaning against the counters with his legs drawn up to his chest. He knew that the tiles were cold under him and that he might have wanted to move if he'd been able to. He also knew that he was falling apart.

He couldn't care less.

Warm hands touched his shoulders, gently shaking him, and someone was speaking to him, but Bran didn't even manage to shake his head in protest. And then one of the hands was on his face – _slapping_ him, actually slapping him, though only halfheartedly – and the voice got louder, more annoying, and it was enough to force him to open his eyes. He blinked a few times as his sight slowly became less blurred. Eventually, he could make out Anthony's face in front of him, his features scrunched into an expression Bran was too tired to interpret.

“Hey”, Anthony greeted him, a tinge of hysteria in his voice. “Can you hear me? Yeah? You, uh. You zoned out a little.”

Bran closed his eyes again.

Immediately, the hand came back and patted his cheek. “Oh, no, no. Come on. Keep looking at me, sunshine. Please, okay? I need to know if you're okay.”

Bran would have glared at him, but all he managed was a tired stare. But apparently Anthony seemed to be content with that, more or less, because his lips stretched into a flimsy smile.

“There you go”, he said, smoothing some black strands of hair out of Bran's eyes. “They're gone, okay? It's just you and me now. You'll be fine. Come, let's get you off the floor.”

Bran didn't protest when Anthony wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him up, keeping his hands on Bran when his legs refused to hold him upright just yet. Anthony grunted under his weight.

“You have to do some of the work, okay? I can't carry you, you're fucking heavy. Here, can you – just to the sofa, alright? Can we do that?”

“I can walk”, Bran said. His voice didn't sound like his own. Or maybe he just didn't hear it properly over the rushing in his ears.

“Okay.”

Anthony still helped him. He didn't take his hands off Bran's body until he could collapse on the sofa, where he made him sit properly and then left, not without telling him that he'd “be right back”. Bran nodded absently, closing his eyes when he felt careful fingers running through his hair for the split of a second. He looked down at his lap, at his fidgeting hands. Felt his own fingernails scraping over his fingers and palms, digging into his skin, and eventually forced his hands to rub his thighs instead. His skin was itching, all over. He was trembling, all over. Falling apart, wasn't he?

_You're much easier to break than I thought, little godling._

“Hey, you okay? I'm back. I'm here.”

Bran's sight focused again, finding Anthony on the sofa next to him. He stared at him, and Anthony stared back, and this time Bran could see the worry in those brown eyes very, very well. He swallowed, noticing how tight and sore his throat was.

“I'm fine”, he rasped.

“Sure you are.” Anthony offered him a glass of water, and Bran carefully took it into his trembling hands. He sipped at it slowly until it was empty, aware that Anthony was watching him. He didn't mind, not really. He didn't feel that much, no, but just enough for a spark of gratitude. Anthony was still here, after all; that alone was more than Bran could ask of him.

He let it happen when Anthony took the glass from him and put it on the table, and he also didn't protest when Anthony's hands came up to Bran's collar. He did frown, though, and peeked down to where Anthony was opening the buttons of his dress shirt, one by one.

“You threw up”, Anthony reminded him calmly. “Cleaned your face when you were out, but there's still some of it on your shirt.”

He made Bran take off the shirt and then change into a hoodie that was a little bit too small, but otherwise warm and comfortable. And then he tucked himself against Bran's side, and, before he knew it, Bran's face was buried in the crook of Anthony's neck, his hands grasping the other man's shirt, keeping him as close as possible. Anthony shifted a little before he wrapped his arms around Bran, squeezing him almost painfully.

“I'm so sorry”, Anthony said, quietly, and only then Bran noticed that he himself was crying.

Shaking.

Sobbing.

 

When Bran woke up, he was still on the sofa. He was also still exhausted and had troubles thinking clearly at first, but he felt warm and, well. A little bit better, maybe. He tried not to think about anything for a while, just listened to the steady heartbeat right beneath his right ear, but eventually he couldn't just lie still anymore. He forced himself to move, sitting up carefully and bringing his hands up to rub his burning eyes.

The penthouse was dark. For a moment, Bran looked out of the broad windows and let his eyes slide over the lights he could see, wondering how long he had slept. Then, he looked down at Anthony, on whose legs he was sitting. He was straddling them, really, but Anthony didn't seem to be bothered by that. He was asleep, lying on his back in a position that couldn't be that comfortable. Bran could see the glow of the arc reactor through the shirt the inventor was wearing. It hadn't disturbed him at all, curiously, even though he'd basically slept on top of it. He rubbed his own chest, as if looking for imprints of the hard metal edges.

He reached out to grab Anthony's shoulder and shook him slightly. That alone was enough to wake the other man, who seemed to be a light sleeper. It didn't surprise Bran in the slightest.

“'m up, I'm awake”, Anthony muttered, already moving to sit up. “JARVIS, lights. What – oh. Hey.”

“Hey”, Bran echoed.

Anthony made a muffled sound and ran his hand over his face. “Time?”

“ _9:43 pm, Sir. You have slept for forty-six minutes._ ”

“Aw, hell.” Anthony stifled a yawn. “Thor?”

“ _Mr. Odinson is on his floor, together with his mother. I have told them repeatedly that you do not wish to be disturbed._ ”

“Thanks, J.” Anthony's eyes found Bran's again. “You okay? Since when are you up?”

“A few minutes”, Bran answered. He moved away a little to free Anthony's legs, but skittered closer to Anthony again as soon as the man had flung his legs from the sofa. “How long did I sleep?”

“Uh, dunno, maybe -”

“ _Five hours and twenty three minutes, sir._ ”

“And you've been sleeping for forty minutes”, Bran said, feeling a spark of – something. Amusement, maybe. Or fondness?

“Forty-six”, Anthony corrected.

“Sweet, Stark. Truly.”

It took Anthony a moment to understand what he was hinting at, and then immediately glared at him. “You clung to me like some kind of kitten, what was I supposed to do? I could hardly toss you off the sofa.” He halfheartedly shoved Bran before he stood up. “Now stop mocking me for taking care of you, asshole. Not before I've had coffee, anyway. You want tea?”

“Yes, please”, Bran said quietly. He watched Anthony as he crossed the room for a moment, then turned to the windows again.

More than anything, he wanted to go back to sleep. He hadn't slept at all last night, after Anthony had left him in a panicked rush, and six hours weren't nearly enough to make up for the exhausting day he'd had.

But, when he thought about it, not that much had happened, hadn't it? Maybe an hour of conversation with people who apparently claimed to be his family. And then a few more hours of falling apart. Hours he could barely remember, since he'd spent them either in apathy on the kitchen floor or sobbing in Anthony's arms. _Sobbing,_ as if that solved any of his problems. He'd never been one to cry before, especially not in someone else's presence – at least he liked to think that of himself, but who could tell?

“You're disturbingly calm right now”, Anthony's voice said, and Bran looked away from the windows to see him setting two cups on the sofa table. “Had enough breakdowns for today?”

Bran would have liked to tell him that he wasn't calm. That he had never felt less calm than he did right now. But he couldn't tell him that, because in a way it was true. He was calm, much more so than he should be, but not because he _was_ calm. Which made no sense whatsoever, did it?

The truth was, there wasn't anything left. A part of him hadn't survived this day. This strange calmness that wasn't calmness but seemed like it was, and scattered thoughts and a pain so immense that it didn't even feel like pain anymore – those were the remains.

It felt like that one dream of his. The one he hated the most, and would always fear the most. He hadn't dreamed it in quite a while, and maybe he would never dream it again, because somehow it had become reality.

Because this, somehow, in a way that he wouldn't be able to describe if he tried, felt like falling.

It felt like drifting through nothingness and wishing for it to end, without ever being able to _make_ it end. Anthony's smile and voice and warmth felt like those swirls of stars and colors he always saw in that one dream; beautiful, yes, and terrifying. Not enough to distract himself from the fact that he was falling, falling and falling and falling apart, but certainly enough to make him want to _stop_ falling even more.

And what do you do, when you find yourself in the worst nightmare you could possibly imagine? What do you do, when you know that there is nothing you _can_ do? The answer is simple, really.

You stop caring.

And that might, to someone else, maybe even to yourself, seem like calmness.

“You don't get to do this, you know.”

Bran looked at Anthony, quirking a brow. “Do what?”

Anthony shrugged, gestured vaguely at him, and then leaned over to put the steaming cup of tea into Bran's hands. “Zoning out. Shutting yourself off. It's as if you're not even here anymore.”

“And?”, Bran asked, sipping his tea.

Apple mint. His favorite.

Back at CSN, Anthony had made sure he had access to this type of tea at every possible hour, as soon as he'd learned Bran didn't enjoyed the types they'd had that much.

And again, a spark of _something._

(Swirls of stars and colors. Right there, next to him.)

“And that's not how it works”, Anthony said. “I won't let you do that. I've tried it myself. It sucks. Coming back from that sucks.”

“Oh, I can imagine.” Bran tugged at one of the far too short sleeves of the hoodie he was wearing, trying to get it to cover his wrists. He felt cold.

“She freed me from my promise”, Anthony said, and the spark of something _that_ made flare up caused Bran to look at him again.

He studied the other man's face. “You can tell me who I am.”

Anthony smirked; a brief thing that faded away again far too quickly. “You already know who you are.”

Ah, right.

Loki, wasn't it?

“I know my name”, Bran said slowly. “And it doesn't feel like mine.”

“So you don't want me to call you Loki, I guess?”, Anthony asked, and Bran shook his head. “Okay. Then I'll just stick to my nicknames for now.” A pause, then, “You don't – you still don't remember anything?”

“No”, Bran said, before he'd even really thought about the question.

He didn't remember anything, not really. He thought he'd had, for a brief moment, before he had started crying and shaking earlier. He had already forgotten the voice and the words he'd recalled by now, though.

“Okay, so...” Stark said. “Look, I can – I can tell you everything. Well, everything I know. I had a long discussion with – with Frigga, while you were out of it, and Thor and I managed to... get her to agree that I should be the one – well, that you'd prefer hearing it from me than from them. But that doesn't mean it has to be that way, if you'd like to talk with them -”

“I don't particularly care”, Bran interrupted him. “But I'd like to stay here, with you. Without them. For now.”

“Okay”, Anthony said at once. He sounded relieved. “Okay, we can do that.”

Bran nodded without looking at him, and he didn't know how much time passed before Anthony eventually spoke up again.

“So, you know your name.”

“Yes”, Bran said, nodding slowly. He had started tracing the edge of his half empty cup with his thumb. “I know the myths, too. And my versions of them, the ones I've written myself, even though I...” He cocked his head, thinking. “Even though I do not remember the details.”

“That's the spell Frigga, uh, wove into your brain”, Anthony explained carefully. “It's supposed to keep you from thinking about anything that could... make you remember. Which is also why you've blacked out so many times when we spoke about this stuff. Makes you have some troubles with the new memories you make, too.”

Bran, thinking about all the times he'd written down his conversations with Anthony before he forgot about them, nodded. “Yes, we had established that.”

“Yeah. So, look, I'm no expert in this stuff. The magic, I mean. Maybe that's something Frigga should explain. But I can tell you who you are and what you did and why you're here.”

“Alright”, Bran said and gulped down the rest of his tea before setting on the table.

Anthony was watching him cautiously, concern in his eyes. “We don't have to do it now. It can wait one more night.”

“And what would you suggest we do with that night?”

“I don't know”, Anthony said, his eyes skittering away. “I just – it feels wrong to talk about this when you... when you don't even care.”

“I do care”, Bran said, his voice quiet, as he pulled his legs up on the sofa. He looked at his feet. It seemed that Anthony had taken off his shoes. “I should.”

Silence, for a while. “Maybe you're in shock?”, Anthony said then, his tone too light.

“Yes, probably”, Bran agreed.

Anthony moved a bit closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough to make Bran know that the possibility was there.

“What can I do?”

Bran looked up to meet his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“You know damn well why. Also, that's so not the point right now.”

Bran managed a tired smile. “It isn't?”

“No.”

“But I'd like it to be.”

Anthony didn't say anything, but he did reach out to take Bran's hand. He laced their fingers together, and Bran watched. He didn't remember touching someone's hand for something else than shaking it. It was surprisingly nice.

“You're not human”, Anthony said suddenly, as if it was an afterthought.

“No.” Bran's eyes snapped back to Anthony's, which had never left his face. “It appears I am not.”

“And you had no idea.”

“No.”

A smirk. “That's also the spell, I suppose. It's been pretty obvious the whole time.”

Bran frowned. “How so?”

“Well, for one thing, you recently spent almost a week without eating or drinking. No human would have just walked out of that cell and been fine with a little bit of fast food. Maybe a human wouldn't even have survived.”

“Oh.”

“Mhhm.” Anthony squeezed his hand. “And you heal much too fast. The Hulk broke some of your ribs, you know, and your skull was fractured from when he threw you against the wall. You were fine the next day.”

Bran stared at him. “I didn't even think about that.”

“Yup. The spell messed you up. It's never been in full working order because Frigga didn't manage to bind your own magic completely, but after our green friend tried to play with you, it's gotten even weaker. I think they don't really know why.”

“My magic”, Bran repeated flatly.

Smirking a little at his tone, Anthony nodded. “I've heard that you're one of the best wizards in the universe. Well, _mage_ , she said mage. You're a mage.”

Bran pulled his hand away, and Anthony let his own sink into his lap without a comment.

It made sense. Loki was a mage, after all. A shapeshifter. A trickster.

“That doesn't explain why”, Bran said, because it really didn't.

They were just tiptoeing around, avoiding the point of it, the point of everything, as long as they could. Bran could see caution in the way Anthony looked at him, even in the way he moved. Caution, and maybe even fear; it certainly seemed as if the inventor dreaded this conversation just as much as Bran.

“Did I trigger the end of the world?”, Bran asked, almost casually, and Anthony looked at him as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream. Unsurprisingly, he decided to laugh.

“No. No, you just -” He let out a breath. “You – you did a lot of things.”

“Is anything of the myths I know true?”

Anthony hesitated. “I'm not sure. Maybe I could just... tell you what they told me? And then how we met, you know. The first time?”

“Do that, then.”

The other man took some time to gather his thoughts, but then he spoke without hesitation or interrupting himself, his voice as calm as he managed.

“Frigga already told you that you were adopted. But you didn't know when you grew up. You thought you were Aesir, like them. They said that you always felt stuck in Thor's shadow, who was pretty much the golden prince Asgard wanted, even though you were just as talented, only in a way that was different than Thor's and... less appreciated in Asgard, I think.”

“Loki is the god of Mischief and Chaos”, Bran recited quietly.

“You're the god of a lot of things”, Anthony told him. “But yeah.”

“What did I do?”, Bran asked.

And Anthony told him.

He told him about a coronation. About a planet named Jotunheim and a people called Jotnar, and how finding out what he was had made Loki's world fall apart. He told Bran about some scientists in New Mexico and about the destruction of a little town. The destruction of a whole planet, the erasement of a whole people. Anthony told him about Loki's fall off the rainbow bridge, with an odd look in his eyes that told Bran that it hadn't been a matter of falling, but of letting go.

Jotnar were blue skinned. But Bran had already known that. He'd dreamed about it, after all.

Everyone had thought Loki to be dead, when in truth he had been falling through something Anthony called the void. Bran knew what it looked like. In detail.

“No one knows how you got out of there”, Anthony said, sounding quiet and concerned. “They have this all-seeing guy, I forgot his name, but -”

“Heimdall”, Bran filled in, his voice toneless.

“Yeah. He couldn't see you. You were gone for about year, Earth time, but it might have been more for you. And when you returned, you...” Anthony trailed off. He wasn't looking at Bran anymore, his eyes content with staring at literally anything else as long as they didn't need to look at Bran. “That's when we met.”

Bran was staring at him. He didn't know if he should be feeling anything at hearing this. He didn't know if he _was_ feeling something and just wasn't aware of it. Those things were nothing he could simply process and accept, nothing that he could even _believe._ He did believe it, anyway.

“What did I do?”, he asked a second time.

There was that rushing in his ears again. His skin was tingling, itching, and he noticed that he'd begun trembling. He realized that his numbness, his calmness-that-wasn't-calmness might be fading. _Sentiment_. Falling apart again. It was as if that was the only thing he ever did.

“You showed up at SHIELD”, Anthony said. It seemed that he had to force the words out, by now. “You had a scepter that you used to... control people. You stole the Tesseract – that's some weird, powerful cube that can – it can open portals, to somewhere else in space. Wormholes."

Anthony's jaw muscles twitched as he gritted his teeth and swallowed. Bran watched, unable to say anything, and waited until the other man continued.

"That was last year", he said, "in May."

He looked at Bran, finally looked at him again, and Bran wished he wouldn't. He didn't like the look in Anthony's eyes. It was firm and hard and cold, and even though Bran knew that it didn't have to _mean_ anything, that it might just be a facade, it hurt.

"That doesn't mean anything to me", he said, sounding exactly as helpless and lost as he felt. Because it didn't, it meant _nothing_ to him. He didn't feel anything but helpless confusion, maybe the beginning of a panic attack, because what he was hearing, everything Anthony  told him so far couldn't be -

"You know about the Avengers", Anthony interrupted his thoughts, making Bran focus on him again. Bran knew the inventor well enough to notice that he was trying to seem calm, even though was anything but. "We're a pretty new thing, you know. Fury brought us together only -"

"Last year. May."

Anthony didn't squirm. He didn't even look away anymore. He just held Bran's wide eyed gaze. "Yes."

"You fought me", Bran forced himself to say, keeping his voice carefully even. "Is that it? I know we were not on the same side. You and your Avengers, you kept me from -"

"You used the Tesseract to open a wormhole over New York", Anthony cut him off. "You had an army, and it invaded New York, and you tried to -" He stopped, drawing a breath. "You wanted to take over the planet. We stopped you. Fury brought us together because of that. Because of you."

Bran didn't understand. He didn't understand how any of this could be true, felt like it _couldn't_ be true. He hadn't lied when he'd said that he didn't want a throne. He didn't want one. He couldn't imagine himself trying to take over a whole planet - not because he didn't believe himself capable of that, just because he didn't see any _sense_ in that.

And, for the very first time, he wondered if he could really take Anthony's word for this.

"I haven't found anything about that when you made me Google your team", he said, hating his voice for sounding so flat when he actually wanted it to be acid.

"That was probably the spell."

The spell. _The spell._ He wanted to spit that word back at Anthony. That one, and every other he had said.

"You can't just tell me something like this and expect me to believe it", he said instead, all but snarling it.

Anthony frowned, but otherwise seemed unimpressed. "Uh, I don't think I have any reason to lie to you about this."

"You don't have a reason to be truthful to an alleged former enemy, either."

Anthony didn't answer for a while, but Ban could positively watch him thinking. He did look away, then, his jaw still clenched and his eyes full of reluctance.

"I can show you something", he offered eventually, standing up and walking across the room. He returned with his phone and set it on the sofa table in front of them.

Bran expected him to say something. To make one of his jokes or even utter curses under his breath. But Anthony was completely silent, his eyes stoically fixed on his phone as he pulled up a holographic screen. It was hard to yank his eyes away from him, Bran found.

(Swirls of stars and colors, right there, next to him. Dimming.)

Anthony started a video.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr :)](https://amidnight--dreary.tumblr.com/)


End file.
